Servant of the Dark
by Daystar Clarion
Summary: Taken by an evil entity, Harry has been its obedient servant for years. But when muggle authorities find him, Harry is trapped between muggle and wizard governments, each wanting control of his growing power.
1. Michael and his Two Girls

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Daystar Clarion and is the sole property of J.K Rowling

_**Warnings: Graphic violence, child abuse, torture- or reference of torture**_

_**tags: dark!harry,magical!harry**_

**Servant of the Dark**

**Chapter One- Michael and his Two Girls**

He was not afraid of the teenager lying on the table- he had no reason to fear him, because he was dead, newly dead, with parts missing. The boy stepped up on the small stool by the examination table and eyed the damage done to the body. The teenager's left arm was missing from the elbow down, his chest was ripped open- ribs broken, and one eye socket remained empty.

He had seen worse.

He stepped from the stool and moved the tray full of medical instruments next to the examination table, then headed for the adjacent room to the one he occupied. Inside of the room smelled heavily of formaldehyde and other preservatives that the spare body parts had been stuck in. He moved past jars full of fingers, eyeballs, buckets full of feet, and a tank bobbing with heads. Another tank held what he was looking for- arms, but to his chagrin, nothing to match the bodies' pale olive skin tone. The only arm severed close enough was the arm of a black man, and he pulled on a protective glove to pull the arm out. He examined the severed edges, seeing that Grem had been slow in removing the arm- no doubt the man had screamed until he could scream no more, judging by the irregular edges.

He returned to the room and began to work on the body, first shaving the severed arm's jagged edges, doing the same to the elbow so they could properly be attached. Carefully he inserted a thin metal rod into the marrow of the bones to hold them in place, stitched muscles together, and skin with quick, nimble fingers, used to the labor. About him was the steady drip of water from cracked pipes, surrounded by an echoing silence as the boy worked.

Around him were other bodies, some missing parts, others clearly having been worked on- miss-matched limbs put on bodies they didn't belong to. They varied in age and sex, from youths to old men and women, different colors and nationality. The boy worked alone, making no sound, looking no where beyond the work that he was doing, only once returning to the other room to retrieve an eyeball for the empty socket, having reset the ribs and sewn up his exposed chest. His heart had been missing.

"Please! Please, someone help me!"

The boy lifted green eyes that had been focused on putting the eyeball into the socket. They moved up towards the vents where the man's voice had traveled.

Michael Montgomery.

He was a family man, with two young girls, a beautiful wife, a mortgage and future college tuition to pay. He was too young with too much responsibility to die, but so had the other hundreds of victims. They all had ended up beneath his scalpel and thread, their pleas like the buzzing of flies, annoying and quickly snuffed out.

"Pleeaase!" the man cried, and he was sure that Grem had worked on the man, judging by the sound of pain in his voice- it hadn't been there yesterday.

The boy wiped away the stains from the body, finished, and retrieved his bag full of medical supplies to stave off infection, numb areas so he could sew them up with minimal fuss. Grem required this of him until he no longer garnered pleasure from his victims, and then he would kill them, sending their remains down to him. The boy left the room and padded calmly down a hall, dark and lined with rusted metal pipes; the place was an abandoned sugar mill, that had gone through some hard times. He followed the sound of the mans pleas until it brought him up to a square, caged off area with a cot and nothing more on the cold stone floor. The air stank of urine and fecal matter- and it always would, the past visitors had left their mark upon this area.

The man- Michael, stopped his pleading to stare wide-eyed at him- perhaps he hadn't expected anyone to actually come. He was an average sized man, around five-eleven, with a full head of greasy blond hair, reddened gray eyes, and the beginnings of a belly, which seemed to plague men in their thirties. He knew this, because Michael had said so, before Grem had gone to work on him. Michael was a policeman, had joined the force straight out of High School, dedicated his life to peace and security. Michael believed that if he saw him as a person, he would somehow feel sorry for him, aid him. But Michael was trying to appeal to the wrong person.

He was missing several fingers which had been wrapped in a dirty cloth and was probably on their way to being infected. His right foot was crushed pitifully, pieces of bone jutting past the skin, swollen and purple. He had seen much worse, much, much worse. The man was filthy from his own sweat, dirt, and blood.

"W-where did Alejandro go?" Michael asked, grey eyes wide with pain but very aware of his surroundings and situation. His eyes ran over his body, taking in the cuts and bruises. "What happened to you? Did he do that to you?"

The boy ignored his questions, instead exiting the cage and pulling out the hose that connected to a pipe. He unfurled it, turned on the pipe faucet, and proceeded to spray the man down. Michael tried to muffle his cries as the freeing water poured over his skin none too gently. This was routine for the boy, and Michael's body looked no different from the countless other bodies he had dealt with, cleaned, treated, put back together.

With a rag, he wiped down Michael's body, immune to his shame, uncaring really. He inspected his fingers, seeing that they were cleanly cut, though they still oozed blood. Harry opened his bag and pulled out an ampule of morphine and a syringe.

"What's that?" Michael asked, sliding away from him, groaning in pain as he put pressure on his damaged hand.

"Morphine," Harry moved forward as he crouched, reaching for Michael's wrist. "So I can take care of you hand."

Despite the pain, Michael was clearly a man of reason, and allowed Harry to numb his hand. He cleaned the area with alcohol and antibiotics as Michael watched sickly, then pulled out a cigarette lighter. He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself when he looked at the boy's calm, composed face. He averted his eyes at the smell of his burning flesh, grateful to not feel any of the pain, though his foot was a lump of pain.

"What happened to Alejandro?" he inquired again to take his mind off of what was happening. Alejandro had been a young Mexican kid who had been in the process of returning to LA from a three day weekend in Tijuana. Needless to say, Alejandro hadn't made it home; he'd been caught the same way Michael had. Both had seen a man dragging a naked, screaming boy into a business van. He had rushed to the child's aid, and here he was, a captive to a serial killer, _a_ serial killer involved in a group that had gripped the country for the last forty years. Grem and his associates didn't follow the usual profile of a serial killer- didn't stick to one sex, one age, color, or region. The only things his victims had in common were the miss-matched body parts. One victim had been mixed with three different people, all identified as normal people, living in different states, missing at completely different times- years apart, to be exact. Several more bodies had been found that way; the CIA, FBI, and other secret government agencies had been on the case of the International Terrorists for years- whole divisions were created for the capture of this horrid group. Who knew that the group supposedly consisted of one man, a twenty something man with short spiky black hair, normal features- he could very well be the next Hollywood heartthrob. What chilled him was that this man claimed to be the same one that popped up almost forty years ago. He did not look nearly old enough to claim such, not to mention the sheer amount of bodies found around the world seemed too much work for one man to accomplish without help. Michael believed he lied about these things to make himself seem more important.

But he supposed it was all irrelevant as soon as the man had strapped him down to the table and cut off three of his fingers on his right hand, thumb, index, and middle finger. The harder he screamed, the happier it seemed to make the man- he didn't think he had ever hated a human being as much as he hated this one, if he was even a man- though he knew this was just the pain, fear, and desperation talking.

An explosion of pain rushed up his left leg, and he stifled a yelp as he turned his head to see that the boy, Harry, was examining his foot, his thin long fingers flitting over the appendage, his eyes focused, face empty. His hand had been wrapped up in clean gauze and bandages. He believed his only chance of escape was with this boy, probably in his early teens, who had fed them, cleaned their cell, this boy who was also Grem's victim, and judging by the bruising along his body and the numerous scars, a frequent one. The boy had spent the last three days in his underwear- he didn't know if it was in response to the heat, or if Grem was also a pedophile along with all of his other sick habits, but he didn't want to anger the boy, so he dared not ask. He needed him to survive. He _had_ asked the boy where had come from, if he missed his parents, if he had siblings. He told him of his two daughters Brittney and Ashley, twins, twelve years old and growing older every day. He spoke of his wife Maggie, how she enjoyed being a soccer mom though in her youth she swore she wouldn't. How she must be beside herself with worry- how many days had he been here? Ten? It was hard to tell, down here in this metal death trap.

He told the boy all these things, and his only response were empty green eyes, apathetic, conditioned to everyone's pain and terror. But he had hope, he knew that the boy was listening to him, thinking about his words. His face was young, but his eyes were ancient.

"Where's Alejandro?" he asked for a third time, wincing as the boy injected his leg full of drugs.

"Dead," the boy replied, voice cracking slightly from puberty, and he placed the boy between twelve and fourteen. The boy wiped his purple swollen foot down with antibiotics, and he stared coldly down at his wrapped hand. Alejandro was dead. Jesus- the kid had only been eighteen years old.

"Why? Why does he do this? Why do _they_ do this?" He tried to be confident, unshakable- but one session with that monster had shaken his resolve- he dreaded seeing that man again. The boy was wrapping up his foot, seeming not to have heard him. He was no longer in any physical pain, the morphine had done wonders, but he had never been more aware of his mortality until now- not even when he had dodged a shoot out between two rival drug dealers two years ago.

The boy straightened from his steady crouch and ran an eye over his body. He was ashamed of his nakedness, to be completely exposed to an indifferent eye, but he would not let the boy know. He gathered up his tools, put them back in the green bag, and as he turned, Michael spied the large bruise spanning along his lower back, black, purple, and red.

"We can help each other," he called after the mostly naked child, receiving no reply.

-------

When Harry returned to his workroom, it was to a ghost, Alejandro to be exact, who hovered about his body in apparent distress.

"That's not my arm, man! That's not my arm!" the ghost was wringing his fingers, transparent eyes wide in horror. "What have you done to me, you little bastard?!" The ghost whirled about the ceiling before zooming down into the basement floor of the sugar mill. Harry sighed and dropped his bag on top of a body and followed the ghost of Alejandro, going down a set of stairs with only pieces of the railing still in tact.

On the basement floor was where the bodies were stored, some so full of preservatives that they had hardened, others frozen in the unnatural chill. Men, woman...children- he averted his eyes from their bodies, small like his, or even smaller. He stepped over them carefully, moving through the vast room, feeling the chill on his flesh as he approached a door out of place compared to the may wooden and metal doors. It was solid gray stone, with dark words written in blood, his and Grem's. The door had no hinges, and in fact, couldn't be opened by any normal or magical person unless they spoke parseltongue and had some of his or Grem's blood. He ran a finger along the words, feeling the familiar magic touch him; the stone door shuddered and dematerialized, revealing a simple metal door with a window, frosted over.

The source of the unnatural cold lingered behind that door, and he turned the knob just as Alejandro chose to rant some more.

"What is this sick shit, man? _How could you do this_?"

He glanced back at the ghost, who floated about the room, staring at the bodies in their various places. He opened the door and allowed the cold and emptiness to rush over him. He didn't suffer ghosts, they were too talkative, didn't hold secrets well, and tended to go places where they weren't wanted. They moved toward him, sucking up any emotions they could find, the Dementors. As they entered from the room, they ran skeletal gray hands over him, feeling him, knowing him. Dementors didn't have eyes, could not see, however they had sensors, ears, smell, touch, and of course, their ability to sense souls and human emotion.

The ghost gasped and zoomed up through the metal ceiling, but the Dementors sensed him and quickly floated across the room and up the stairs after him. Grem had never been specific on where he had gotten the cloaked creatures, but they proved useful in ridding ghosts, or sucking souls from his victims. Across the room the thirty or so Dementors occupied was another door, a regular one. It held a completely different workroom, a room where they performed magic, wondrous and powerful. At the back of his mind, the Devourer stirred, a sudden warmth at the base of his spine.

*Food?* the Devourer asked, its simple voice drifting through his mind. He rubbed the back of his hand against his lower back where the Demon resided, looking like a large bruise. His touch silenced the Demon, and he turned from the room, aware of its hunger. There was a howl above accompanied by a cry of terror. He grimaced at the vents and pipes that carried sound around the mill. No doubt the Dementors had caught Alejandro and were in the process of tormenting Michael.

He didn't know why the man was still alive, and why so little damage had been done to him, but that's how it had been lately, Grem was either distracted or gone, off somewhere, hunting someone or something. Harry went back up to floor level where his workroom was and began the process of wheeling bodies down to the lower floor where they would be stored with the rest.

Grem and Harry had arrived in the very small, very diminishing town of Betteravia two years back after a short stint in Kansas where they had collected farmers and watched the state panic at the disappearances. It was at the point that if a person didn't come home or went missing, it was believed they had been captured. When the authorities had come in on the abandoned meat packing farm that they had been in, the two of them had been long gone, leaving the bodies behind. They had traveled west to wherever the road took them, until for some reason they stopped in the town. At the time Betteravia had been a small town founded back in 1897 and depended mostly on the sugar mill for its main employment and source of economic income. But competitors, a fire, a devastating dust storm, and several fatal casualties had shut the mill down for good only a few months earlier, and with it, left most of the residents of Betteravia. He and Grem had stayed, and promptly moved into the factory when it was clear that no one was going to claim it.

After he had placed the bodies below, he went back up and headed through the rusting, dilapidating mill toward the place he and Grem slept, the only area that was still in decent shape. It had once been an employee lounge, now turned into a bedroom. He headed for Grem's side of the bed and picked up the black rod that rested between bed and counter. The rod was also carved of stone, about three inches thick and three feet long. Embedded at the end of the rod were teeth from wizards, witches, and a few goblins.

A tiny bell caught his attention, and he looked up to see the numerous dreamcatchers he had created sway gently. Harry had made several of them, to fend off the nightmares, made them from the bones of birds, cats, dogs, but mainly crows; they hung from the ceiling above the bed, each one unique in its makeup and design. Sadly, the magic in them wore off after a while, or with the intensity of a possible nightmare, which was why there were so many of them.

Harry moved from the room and followed the cold feeling of dread that the Dementors gave off, and as he came across one, he gently tapped it, not unlike a cowboy prodding his herd along. The Dementor moved along in the direction that was implied, and he began to round them up, lest they wander off the premises, though there wasn't likely to be anyone around besides him, the crows, Michael, and the dead. He herded them back into their room, reluctant as they were- the rod was made from Grem's magic, his painfully cruel magic. He did not know if the touch of the rod was painful, but the Dementors immediately reacted to its gentle prod. In the process of returning them, he removed several from Michael's cage, where they crowded, sucking up his terror and pain. The man's eyes were wide with shock, his skin grey; he huddled in the middle of the cage as far from the Dementors as he could.

*Hungry,* the Devourer murmured, and he silently assured that it would eat soon.

Finished with the day's work, Harry retired to the room, replacing the rod back to where it had stood and curled up on the bed, the gentle ring of the bell relaxing him as he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

"_You have lots of magic Harry, more than I ever suspected a human could have," the dark eyed man called Grem stood over him, where he huddled, shaking in terror. The man smiled down at him, a smile that until an hour ago seemed so friendly. "I'm going to shape you and your magic, into the perfect tool."_

_The man pulled out a cooking knife, and Harry began to scream. He knew what people did with knives when they weren't preparing or eating food. He jumped to his feet and tried to dive between the man's legs, but Grem reached down and grabbed him by the arm. Harry felt the knife sink into his back and gave a squawk of surprise right before the pain set in. And then he was screaming, flailing, feeling the blade plunge into his back again, into his side, through the muscle of his arm. Above his screams he could hear the man's laughter. Harry curled up into a ball, covering his head and face, screaming, feeling the blade sink into his thigh before the man stopped._

_He whimpered, his small_ _body on fire, slick with his own blood, and felt the man pick him up. He screamed in the man's arms, sure that he was going to hurt him more, and continued to scream as the man lay his bloody and injured body down on a bed. There was only pain then, pain and encroaching weakness, and he wished mommy and daddy were there, they would stop with man from hurting him._

_The man leaned over him, his pale skin turning gray, black veins mapping his face as he took hold of his face and pressed his lips against Harry's. Harry tried to jerk away as the man forced his mouth open, there was a sucking sensation, and suddenly...it was as if he had been freed from his body. He was rushing through a black tunnel of darkness and flame until he seemed to settle in a dark place. He lifted his hands to his face, and he could see right through them. He looked about, but all he could see was darkness, thick like water. Then something touched him, pushed through him, something dark and foul, and he tried to move away from it, but he could not escape-it was becoming a part of him._

_The darkness faded then, and he was in the park near Privet Drive, standing on the familiar hill with the sandbox. He was home! He looked down at his body, looking for the cuts, but again, he was see-through. He turned to run, run home, which was just down the street, when a loud roaring whistle filled the air, loud enough to make his ears hurt. He looked up, mouth opened wide as he watched a large fiery rock roar across the sky, so bright that he could almost not see it. It roared through the sky from east to west, disappearing at the horizon where a giant flash occurred, and the ground trembled._

_He shut his eyes at the flash, covering his face, feeling heat touch his body, and then he felt fabric under him, and cool darkness- when he removed his hand he was on the bed, the bad man's arms around him. He was bloody and hurting, hurting badly, and he was whimpering again._

"_There, there," the man Grem soothed, stroking his head. "A little pain never hurt anyone. If you stop crying, I'll give you that ice-cream I promised. How about that?"_

_And he shut up, not because he wanted ice-cream, no, he had all but forgotten that, but because of the veiled threat behind those words._

Harry woke to the heat of an October afternoon and the jingle of the dreamcatchers. *Nightmare?* they whispered and swayed, unsure if what he had suffered was an actual nightmare, which it wasn't. It was merely a memory of a new beginning; he shuddered as he uncurled himself from the fetal position, sitting up and turning on the TV. Though the mill had been shut down for several months now, Grem still managed to get electricity after he had stolen several back up generators from different hospitals. He had needed help for this, and after hiring a group of professionals to assist him, he then killed them for confidentialities' sake. He didn't know how they managed to get water though.

The newscaster was in the middle of giving an update on the missing policeman, Michael Montgomery, a respected policeman from Long Beach in the Los Angeles county. They'd been through the whole county down through Orange County looking for the man, because officers of the law didn't just disappear. They showed pictured of Michael in uniform, then with his family, girls Brittney and Ashley, his wife Margaret, and Michael had not lied, she was lovely, even though she was sobbing into the camera, pleading for her husband's return. They showed scenes of the FBI talking to one another, looking like they had clues, but really didn't have anything at all beyond blind speculation.

Harry uncrossed his legs and crawled off the bed, heading for the shower room. The fact that the FBI was now involved didn't alarm him, most of the law enforcement agencies had gotten involved over the long span of Grem's terror. He had told him, that it had taken the world a decade before it would admit that the random disappearances of people all over the world were connected. Grem had purposely left several corpses behind that had his signature, sewn on body parts that did not belong. It had at first been believed to be the work of Nazi's- another way to frighten and oppress, especially since they were found all over Europe. However, in 1950, a small abandoned church in Brazil that was being torn down had a basement full of bodies, natives and tourists alike, all mutilated and miss-matched. The media went crazy- maybe not Nazi's then.

By the 1960's, bodies were found here and there in the United States, any age, race, sex, status- it didn't matter if a person had money or not. It was then concluded that this was the work of mass terrorists- there were simply too many bodies in different places at different points in time for it to be the work of the regular text book killer.

Whole sections of the government were dedicated to capturing at least one member of this evil, wicked group with apparently no objective beyond ruining lives and taking them. Little did they know, until 1986, Grem had been working alone- well, with help from his little herd of Dementors and the Annihilator, his Demon.

Harry stepped from the shower, dried himself off, and dressed in a red shirt and blue jeans. He put on socks and shoes, turned off the TV, and moved from the room, heading into the damaged parts of the mill. First he went to see Michael, who was still in the middle of the cage, huddled in an uneasy, pain-filled sleep. He'd been here for more than a week now, the longest of all the victims he had seen so far.

Harry turned from the cage and walked to the entrance of the mill. Betteravia was a small town, just a little inland from the coast, though close enough to still get some of the cool ocean wind that eventually made its way from the coast. It was a bit dry from the fall heat, growing more thistle and bramble now that it was mostly empty, but during the spring and winter times it was very green. He moved sedately from the unkempt property and headed into the dying town- for some reason, Grem was attracted to small towns- did most of his damage in them. He passed the General Store- out of business, the Sugar Hotel- out of business, the schoolhouse- gone, the Fire Department- empty. He stopped in front of the steps to the Betteravia Catholic Church, pausing to turn and survey the town; he hadn't seen anyone on his way here. Had the last of them moved on? He wouldn't be surprised if the church was closed too.

Harry didn't know any of the people here, the small amount that had still remained, and though they had been nosy and curious, he had long learned that silence caused him less pain. Eventually they stopped asking questions and had moved on to being cautious and wary. He opened the door to the church and stepped in, feeling cool air rush over him, faint with incense. He headed down the aisle between the pews and sat midway, settling in to stare up at the painted murals of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Harry wasn't religious, but neither was he against it. It simply existed, and there weren't dead people in here besides the ones in the pictures, nor the smell of decay, preservatives, or rusted metal. There wasn't the chill of the Dementors, the cawing of crows attracted to the scent of death, or the screams of pain from Grem's victims.

So he sat and stared.

Grem didn't seem to care what he did on his free time, and had no aversion to places of worship- nay, he had claimed to have done some of his best work in churches, temples, synagogues- any place that believed in a higher power. The pastor hadn't liked Grem upon sight, and seemed even more concerned to see that they were related. Most people believed so, for they were both pale, thin, with black hair.

"Son," a soft voice murmured, and he turned to see the pastor, Father Daniel approaching. He was thin with gray hair combed back, face lined with age, and a pair of bright blue eyes that ran over his body, looking alarmed. "What happened?" Harry followed his gaze and realized a short sleeved shirt hadn't been a wise idea, with the line of bruising from elbow to wrist. Stupid. Instead of hiding the bruise-it was too late for that- he smiled up at him, with what he hoped was a smile. Father Daniel sat down beside him and stared into his eyes. "You suffer, I can tell," he stated in his gentle voice, and Harry felt his smile melt away. "I'm leaving tomorrow to lead another congregation..." he ran a hand through his grey hair in agitation. "I don't think I can leave here without knowing you'll be okay."

Harry stared at the murals in silence.

"I know a few people in Guadalupe who can help you-"

"Foster Homes?" he asked. "Orphanages? I've seen one before. A prison for small people."

Father Daniel opened his mouth, then shut it.

"I live," Harry said as he stood up. "That's all that matters, but thank you for caring." Grem said to always be polite, even when you were peeling someone's face off. He left the soon to be abandoned church and headed back to the mill. A moving van roared by, one of the last, he was sure. Betteravia already looked empty. He glanced back to see that Father Daniel was in the doorway, watching him. He smiled and waved; the man lifted a hand in response and he turned at the General Store, not wanting the man to know that he lived at the mill.

He had not lied to the pastor, he _had_ seen an orphanage during a stint in New York; he and Grem had stood by the barbed-wire fence, watching the juveniles mill around benches and black asphalt, angry and listless.

"That's where you'll end up, if you ever take it upon yourself to leave me. Then I'll come and get you, and you'll be sorry you ever dared to leave," he had then patted Harry's head affectionately, and he knew it to be true.

Back at the mill he searched for food and found a bag of bread and cheese- slim pickings, now that the General Store was out of business, they would have to travel all the way to Guadalupe for food. He retrieved his bag and went to Michael, who no longer hovered in the middle of the cage. His eyes were glazed over in pain, eyes haunted. The Dementors must have been a shock. The man looked up at him warily as he approached. Harry sat down and began to check his fingers and foot; Michael remained silent and shivering, that was, until he injected the sites of pain. Then his shoulders sagged in relief. Harry served him bread and cheese, and the man ate gratefully.

When he was satisfied, he spoke. "How long have I been here?"

Harry picked at the bottom of his shoe. "About a week and a half."

Michael sighed. "Feels longer."

*What are you doing?* A familiar voice, Grem's, came through his head.

*Feeding the prisoner.*

*Ah...Michael Montgomery, the policeman. How is he? Cried like his two little girls when I cut off his fingers.*

Harry stared at the officer, out of pain, slightly alert.

*In pain,* he lied, and felt the flavor of it echo between them.

*You lie,* Grem replied, but Harry could taste his disinterest, and Harry could tell that the man wasn't alone. Another victim? Grem could feel his interest. *I've brought someone for you all the way from Vegas. You're going to like him.*

Harry sat in the cage feeling a bit startled. Grem had brought animals for him, dogs, cats, a horse when they had been in Kansas, but Harry had forgotten it and eventually it had escaped. Two of the cats he had killed testing out poisons, three of the dogs had fled like the horse- except for a small Pomeranian that had barked so much that he had drowned it in bathtub after a week in its company. Grem had watched from the doorway, black eyes full of delight, though he had felt guilty about it later. So bringing an actual human for him was a bit puzzling, unless he had a special purpose like a previous victim, who had been a neurosurgeon. Grem had originally followed the man randomly from a gas station and taken him from his home, but had decided not to kill him when on the torture table, the man babbled about how important his life was. Granted, it kept him alive for a month, where he was forced to show Harry everything about the human brain that he could. When his time was up, Grem had given him to the Dementors.

*What does he do?*

"He makes bombs.*

Harry smiled, interest blooming. He'd never blown anything up before- most of his work was either magical or biological. He felt Grem thoughtfully thinking on the man with him. *Take Michael down to the storage room- I don't want this man to see him. Yet.*

Harry nodded and dug into his back, pulling out an extra strength Dreamless Sleep draught, which he usually used for himself.

"What's this?" Michael asked as he handed the potion over.

"It helps with infection."

The man looked at him. "Why won't you let me help you? Are you afraid that he will hurt you if you help me? I'm a police officer, the government will protect you from him. You would be doing the world a great service- you would be a hero! You would be bringing down one of the world's most horrendous organizations."

Harry nudged the draught towards the man's lips, and he sighed, swallowing it quickly. As Michael's eyes began to droop, he spoke. "That man, is my _God_."

----------------

**TBC**

**Facts: Betteravia is- or was, a ghost town in the Santa Barbara County area. It is 92 miles northeast of L.A. And 332 miles south of San Francisco.**

**Though this story starts in the U.S, it will trickle back to Britain because that's where all the OC's are. You'll find about about the Dursleys and all that too once the muggles find Harry. Also things like the Annihilator and the Devourer will be explained.**


	2. Andy Bauer: Demolition Man

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Daystar Clarion

_**Chapter Two: Andy Bauer: Demolition Man**_

Andy Bauer came from a family of devout Catholics, the third child in a family of twelve. He liked football, poker, beer, women- as any straight man would- and blowing things up. It must have been from birth; his parents had claimed that even as a young boy of three, he was fascinated with Hollywood explosions, enough that they stopped showing any of the violent movies. But he had brothers.

His first stint with actual explosives was on a particular Fourth of July when he was eight; he had bunched several firecrackers together and ignited them, delighted as several of them had collided, two caught fire, and several going up into the sky. It was an addiction. By the time he was twenty, he had managed to join a demolition company that took down old buildings, and he found out how poor it was- the meticulous planning, the stiff regulations. And there wasn't much excitement in two seconds of unfiery destruction.

So after fifteen seconds of deep contemplation, Andy quit, packed up his favorite explosives, and went underground, where he blew up things with more substance and fire. There were boundaries of course. He never blew anything up with people in them- which was how he had gotten in this situation in the first place. He had joined up with a group of ex-military arsonists and one had a nasty grudge against his ex-wife, talking about blowing up her workplace- and Andy had been all for it- until it turned out he planned to do it during working hours, which was a no-no in Andy's book, especially when her place of work was a children's daycare center.

He had been against it, and when being vocal about it, the guy had pulled a .45 on him. He had escaped with a new respect for life and had been hiding out in Sin City for a while, playing the tables for easy cash until he figured out what to do with himself. It was then that the state of Colorado was in an uproar over a terrorist bombing on a children's daycare, The fool had been caught, and was even giving names; Bauer had sat in dread, waiting for his name and picture to show up, but none had yet.

That was when he had met Grem- at the time he had thought he looked like one of those Japanese gangsters he had seen in a few films, with his tailored suit- pale grey, black shoes, and black spiky hair- though he looked full white. The jacket of the suit was unbuttoned, revealing a dark blue tie and white shirt. He walked into the dimly lit bar with a casualness he had only seen in people who were regulars, but others watched him with a curiosity that said he was new. He had sat next to Bauer, lit a cigarette, and ordered a Jose Cuevo with the airs of someone who was holding back boredom by a sheer effort of will. He didn't know how a conversation had started, how it had gotten to be about bombs, but somewhere along the line Bauer thought he might be an undercover cop. He then cursed his alcohol induced tongue for being so damn liberal about his life story. That was, until they started showing pictures of that missing policeman in California, which was such a big deal because he wasn't the first law enforcer that had disappeared in the last ten years. If anyone bothered to ask him, well he would say it was nothing more than the works of the ITG that had been plaguing society for decades now.

But it was the mirth and delight dancing around those seemingly black eyes that changed his mind- policeman tended to form a brotherhood of sorts with each other, and nothing pissed them off more than hearing about another getting hurt or killed in the line of duty. Shortly after this, the man wandered out, and before he could mull over the consequences of his loose tongue, his own face appeared on the television, my what a shock that had been, even when he had been waiting for it. He had left the bar quickly, and had only been mildly surprised to see Grem leaning against a white business van, smoking and gazing up at the stars. When their eyes connected, the man offered him a ride, said he was heading home to California, and it didn't seem like a bad idea to hitch a ride right out of Nevada.

He couldn't call home now to assure his family that he didn't have anything to do with the bombing in Colorado for he could already imagine the Feds crawling around his parents property, asking them questions. They would tell them how much he loved explosions as a child. They'd ask all his old co-workers about him, and they would say he had been an unsatisfied man. They would ask the men who gave out his name, and hopefully they would say he had nothing to do with it. But he doubted that though.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had thought Grem lived in Los Angeles, but no, they drove calmly toward farmland and empty spaces up into a town called Betteravia, he didn't know how many miles from a decent city. The first thing he noticed was that it was eerily empty, he saw no one walking about, the stores looked unoccupied, the houses unkempt.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, speaking for the first time during their long drive. Most of the time he had been expecting to be pulled over, kept darting looks out the tinted windows, but Grem drove like an innocent man, which, Bauer was vaguely under the impression that he wasn't.

"Gone," Grem replied simply, flicking his cigarette out the window. "Most moved to Guadalupe- the next town over- or some other place."

"You mean this place is empty?" Bauer felt uneasiness rush through him as they passed through a broken fence with 'Private Property' signs all along it. They moved toward a large structure, long and mostly of metal, with two tall silos beside it. "What's this?" he asked as they rode to a stop near two large doors.

"This is a sugar mill," Grem sat back in the seat, grinning at him. "Its been abandoned for some time, so I've set up shop. You can stay as long as you want."

Set up shop? What did he make here? Crystal Meth? Before he could reply, the man opened his door and stepped out, and he followed, brushing dark brown hair from his face as the wind blew through the area, hot and dry. There was the sound of wheels and creaking metal, and he turned to see one of the doors slide open, large enough for a truck to back into. A boy slipped through.

He was wearing a red t-shirt, blue jeans, and walked with a strange confidence Bauer had only seen in older men. As he approached, Bauer could see his face- a young face- but it was a face girls would squeal about. He'd either grow up to be a really handsome man, or an unusually pretty one, judging on how he filled out. He had a full, wide mouth, straight nose, two large green eyes framed by thick black lashes, and a full head of black hair that clearly had a mind of its own- or it was the current fashion for teens. The kid stopped before them, giving Grem a quick glance before looking up at him, a faint smile on his face. He really reminded him of his kid brother Andrew.

"Hey there," he greeted, guessing this was Grem's younger sibling, holding out his hand. "I'm Anthony, but you can call me Andy."

The boy grasped his hand and replied with a voice rough with puberty, "I'm Harry."

If the boy said anything more, he didn't hear it, because he had all eyes on the chain of bruises running along the kid's skinny arms.

"Ouch," he commented uneasily. "How'd you get those?" The boy released his hand, glanced down at his arm, then glanced at Grem, who was standing near them, still grinning. The boy shrugged in reply. Acid churned in Bauer's belly.

"Anyway," the man patted Harry on the head good-naturedly. "Harry has been interested in bombs for some time now, and when you and I talked, I thought the two of you _had_ to meet."

Grem hadn't mentioned a kid brother, not anywhere in that conversation at the bar, or on the the long drive here, he was at least sober enough to remember something like that. He grinned down at the growing teenager, masking his uncertainty. Bombs were dangerous- he had no delusions about that- and the idea that he was supposed to teach a young kid how to blow things up sent him into a nervous sweat. He had been careless when _he_ was a kid, and nothing would make Harry any different. He glanced at Grem, taking in his apparently permanent grin and dark eyes; it was the expression of a man who wasn't used to hearing no. He knew Grem was dangerous, knew that Grem knew he was in trouble with the law, and he now understood that his offer of sanctuary resided in pleasing this child. It shouldn't be too hard, he had older and younger brothers, he was good with kids. Besides, he didn't want to go to jail for the millions in property damage he had caused last year.

He studied the boy briefly, his gaze burrowing into the pale green eyes- steady eyes, eyes that did not flinch or waver...unusual eyes that did not challenge, but had the patient watchfulness of a disconnected observer. As if his decisions didn't really matter to him. They didn't belong on a teenagers face.

Bauer drew an eye over his body, lanky, yet completely comfortable- he bet this kid didn't go through the elbows and knees stage. Something wasn't right about him.

But Bauer smiled. "I guess I can show him a thing or two."

Grem's grin grew. "Good. Harry, why don't you show him around the place while I get his bags."

"No-no!" Bauer moved toward the van. "That's alright, I usually like to handle my own stuff." The man smiled at him and turned away, heading for the mill.

As Bauer pulled his bags from the back of the van, he glanced back to see the youth Harry standing in the same spot, hands stuffed in his jean pockets, gazing at him. "Okay," he had a good grip on his bags. "Where to?" He glanced over at the mill and wondered where Grem had gone to. The mill was vast, stretching several acres and surrounded by abundant farmland, though most of it was dry dirt.

Harry pulled his hands from his pockets and silently led him into the mill. As they approached the entrance, the brash cawing of crows made him look up. The whole area was littered with them, black birds sitting on the telephone poles and wires, in the dirt and on the fences and abandoned equipment.

"Damn," he muttered. He didn't like crows, creepy little bastards, and he could thank Hollywood for that, along with practically the whole horror fiction genre. He didn't like how they watched him, turning their heads this way and that, flapping their dark wings and ruffling their feathers.

"You don't like them," he jumped and looked at Harry, who stood by the door, waiting for him, calm green eyes drifting from him to the crows.

"Naw, I always thought they were creepy bastards." The boy blinked at him as if not understanding what could be creepy about them, then entered the mill. He looked back at the birds, still felt they were watching him. He shrugged a shoulder in agitation and entered.

---------------

Michael woke, groggy and disoriented, to a dark room with four grey walls and nothing more. The stone floor was painful to lay upon, and his wounds began to spring to life as the morphine wore off. "Dear God," he groaned as he sat up. Why was he in here? Was this where they had taken Alejandro before they had killed him? He began to shiver, his mouth drying with fear. This was worse than the cage, much worse. It was obvious Grem planned to kill him, like the thousands of others he claimed to have. Was he going to send those wraith-like creatures to kill him? God, what were they? He felt like they were near him at this very moment, probably right outside the door, waiting for him

His time was almost up.

"Oh Maggie," he breathed in despair.

---------------

The mill was vast, and it was dangerous. Parts of it had crumbled, 'in a dust storm,' Harry had said when he inquired, and some of it had burned in a fire not too long ago.

"Several burned to death," he had murmured as they stopped to stare at a burned beam. "One down to mere bones." Bauer had looked down at the kid, stared at empty green eyes and saw no horror.

"So, where's your room?" he asked, to change the subject, and followed him down a series of smoke- stained halls into a large room, where the swivel door claimed was a lounge. The lounge had apparently been converted int o a large bedroom, with a few chipped dressers, and a four poster bed. Dangling from the ceiling above the bed were...Bauer squinted and moved toward the bed.

"Are those...dreamcatchers?" he looked back at the boy, who nodded. They were intricate things, each different from the other in large or small ways. As he moved closer he spotted the skull of a small cat twined into one, what looked like twigs bent through the eye sockets to hold it to the circle. Hanging beside it were many others, many that had the wings of crows and other small birds twined into them. He touched one, and a pure note, a ringing of a bell sounded, and he saw the small bell dangling off of it.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked in a a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

"I made them," the boy replied in disinterest. No wonder he wasn't bothered by the crows- he was too busy killing them.

"Really?" he said casually. "that's a pretty cool skill. How do you do it?" he turned to look at the teen, whose eyes roved emptily about the room before settling back on him.

"I soak small branches in water until they are soft, then bend them into a circular shape. I add stuff I want on it later when it dries and hardens."

"Do they work? They're supposed to keep away bad dreams, right?"

"Yes, but only for dreams, unfortunately." he said it so seriously, that Bauer was almost moved to believe him, but he had never been the kind of person to believe in mystical crap.

They moved from the room, Bauer following him through parts of the large mill, stepping through dirt, water damage, and scorched metal, something he was familiar with.

"A bathroom and washroom," Harry opened a door to a men's restroom. The floor was layered in dirt, but the row of sinks, shower stalls, and urinals were clean.

"Do they work?" he asked.

The teen nodded and moved on, passing through rays of sunlight- Bauer looked up to see the sky through a missing chunk of the ceiling. They passed an area that was fenced off, and by the way the teen paused before it told him that the chained fence hadn't been there before.

"This leads to the basement of the mill. Please don't try to go down there- this is Grem's space," his voice was flat and empty, weird coming from a teenager- they tend to wear their emotions on their sleeves.

"No prob'," he had no problems staying out of other people's business- he glanced at the bruises that stood out starkly on Harry's arms. Yes, no problems at all. "Just show me where I sleep and I'll be happy. Haven't slept in twenty-four hours."

Harry scratched his head, and finally a new, more normal emotion appeared on his face. Confusion.

"I wasn't particularly prepared for your arrival; you're not the usual guest we get." He moved away from the fence and Bauer continued to follow him through a few halls and rooms, most of them empty. The large factory machines had been removed, but they had left their marks on the dirty granite floor.

"What did you guys do with all the machines?"

"Most were taken to other plants in the U.S. The useless ones are on the other side of the mill, outside." As he spoke they passed an area that sent chills up his spine- it wasn't the sight of it, but the smell, a distant odor of blood and feces. The floor was dank with water, and there was a cage in the middle of the room where he imagined electrical circuits and other more fragile machines used to sit. There was a 'Danger' and a high voltage lightning bolt sign hanging in the side of the cage.

They passed that room and opened an office door with the chipped words 'manager' on it, revealing a spacious, if dusty, office, complete with desk, chair, and a long padded bench, which said the manager hadn't gone home often. Probably was the guy who set the place on fire. Bauer placed his bags on the desk and stretched the cramped muscles in his neck, feeling weary. Harry turned in a circle, surveying the office in silent contemplation before looking at him.

"Tomorrow then," he said with a bow of his head and left.

"Where did Grem go?" he called after him, but the boy was already out of hearing range. His instincts said that he wanted to know where Grem was at all times- but at least he was sure that the man wasn't an undercover cop. He opened a bag and pulled out a gray wife-beater. Weariness was coursing through his body- it was tiring business being a wanted man. Bauer laid back on the padded bench and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. What was happening to his family right now? Were they ashamed of him? Were they shocked? Or were they not in the least surprised that his life had turned out this way? He wasn't.

With a sigh, he dug into one of his bags and pulled out a small portable radio, which he turned on to the 'Top Forty Countdown' and shut his eyes. Sleep descended over him quickly.

---------------------

Harry shuddered as the sun dropped past the horizon- he could always feel the sun set within his blood, as if he was attuned to the exact moment when night began. He lifted his head, green eyes turning to one of the large windows near the large doors. Dust floated in the last dimming rays of the light, and he stood, watching them disappear before heading into their bedroom. His eyes spotted a set of keys sitting on the dresser, next to a silver handgun. He grabbed the keys, but paused to stare down at the gun. The message was clear, Andy Bauer was like the surgeon, he was useful until Harry no longer needed him. Then he would be dead.

He took the last piece of bread and cheese and headed for the fenced off basement, unlocking it and descending down into the chill, stepping over bodies as he headed for the Dementor's room. He ran a finger over the cold grey stone and waited impatiently as it dematerialized and revealed the plain windowed- door. He stepped into the threshold of Dementors, felt their fingers run over him, sucking at any emotions that he may have, but getting very little from him. Crossing the dark, frozen room, he approached the door that led to their magical workroom.

Inside was everything magical that they either carried with them around the country, or had just accumulated, like the headless unicorn hanging by its legs from a rope, or the large round cauldron that sat in the middle of the room. Near the cauldron were several rows of tables with smaller cauldrons, Bunsen burners and petri dishes, layered with the feathers and discarded body parts of crows and other small animals. The walls were lined with shelves full of potions, books, and artifacts with dangerous magical properties. Harry approached a shelf full of nutrition potions he had brewed, several magic based antibiotics, numbing agents, ampules of morphine, and syringes. He dropped them in the bag with the bread and cheese, then went over to the unicorn, giving its hide a poke, contemplating whether its flesh was ready to be harvested. Ground to a fine powder, Unicorn hide- which did not rot, could restore elasticity to the epidermis, knocking off years of sun and aging damage. Unicorn eyes could induce prophetic visions, and the uterus of a female unicorn could restore virginity _and_ increase fertility. The hair was, of course, perfect for wand making, the hooves for crafting beautiful artwork, and the blood...The blood of a unicorn could prolong the life of basically anyone, in any fatal situation, whether it be old age, illness, or wounds.

Unfortunately, not only was it highly illegal to kill and harvest unicorn parts, it was also supposed to do damage to the soul of the harvester, but Harry never felt any different when Grem brought them around. They were probably one of the few in the world that actually made a profit off of the creatures. Deciding that the flesh wasn't ready, Harry left the room, shut the door behind him and moved his way through the Dementors.

*Hungry,* the Devourer whispered, and he rubbed his back with a free hand.

_Soon_, he promised, and the demon grumbled, falling silent again.

The door rematerialized behind him as he stepped over the stiff bodies and approached another door. As he opened it, he was immediately stunned by a blow to his face, knocking him to the floor. A body clambered over him, wheezing, and hit him in the face again- Harry felt his lower lip split as the body pressed into him. Harry lay still on the granite floor, feigning unconsciousness as Michael rolled from him, groaning in pain, then crying out in horror as he rolled right on top of a dead woman. Harry rolled over, grabbed an ampule of morphine as the officer tried to crawl away from all of the bodies, face gray with horror. He filled a syringe with the drug and approached the man.

Michael looked up at him. "Did you help him do this?" he gasped, as Harry approached. He tried to kick him, but Harry grabbed his leg and injected him with a rather heavy dose. He wiped blood from his face as the naked man began to lose consciousness, then dragged him back into the small room. He removed his bandages, searching for infections, then took out his potions.

With the many victims that Grem had given him, he was quick to discover that many of them were too unconscious to administer potions to, they tended to choke on them. So he had embarked on an experimental journey on how to administer magical treatment intravenously, diluting many potions so they were thin enough to travel through the circulatory system. Unfortunately, many of his patients died during the experimental process, since many of the potions weren't agreeable to H2O additives. It had taken many potions books, long hours, and many lives before he had created a new line of intravenous friendly potions.

He treated Michael's wounds, left the food with him, and locked the door behind him as he left. It was outside of the door that he realized something, something that had been simmering right about when he was hit in the face. Anger. He was angry. Harry didn't do angry, it was a useless emotion, something that had been bled out of him since he had arrived in Grem's oh so tender care. It was an emotion that led to stupid acts and bad decisions- but he knew what to do with such emotions. Quickly he returned to the Dementors room, sat on a bench in the darkness, and let them suck away at his anger. There wasn't much of it, but it was there, and they were hungry, always hungry, and they stoked him and drank in his anger.

He wasn't angry with Michael- he was only acting normally- it was Grem that he was angry with. Grem, who had wandered off and left a man alive, which he never did. Grem usually killed his victims when he planned to leave for a while, and it was this that made him angry. And worried. That emotion came too, and the Dementors ate that quickly as well, jostling each other for him- he could hear the rustling of their cloth- he sat with his hands in his lap, staring into the inky blackness. Worry, because this was unusual for Grem, and he didn't know what to do with unusual, or how to respond to it. Bauer, he understood. Bauer was like a substitute teacher, here until he was no longer needed. But Michael? His puzzlement was sucked away too, until he felt normal and empty.

A tune moved through the pipes, startling him, and he looked up in their direction, wondering where it was coming from. He left the room and stood amongst the bodies, listening to...music? The unmistakable sound of music was drifting through the pipes, and he could only conclude that Bauer had a radio. Grem had never bothered to buy a radio, so they never listened to music- in fact, the last time he had heard it was way back in England. There was no music here, and the sound of it was quite strange.

If Grem didn't come back within a suitable time, he would give Michael's soul to the Dementors and his body to the Devourer.

----------

Bauer was having one of those nightmares where he _knew _he was having one, but didn't have the ability to wake up. What made it a pretty rotten one was that it was perfectly plausible, and in fact, could be happening right now. He was dreaming that the FBI had his family, _all _of them, down to distant relations, and were in the process of interrogating them, tying them up in dark rooms, shining bright lights in their faces, demanding to know where he was. And they wouldn't say, because they honestly didn't know, because he was poor at keeping in touch with them, and the last time he had called was when he had been in Florida.

They were hurt, frightened, and it was all because of him and his insatiable desire to watch things blown apart.

So he was grateful, but startled, when he was awakened by a pressure on him. He blinked into the darkness, but didn't move, not wanting to alert the person that was standing on him- no, _over _him. Squinting, he realized it was Harry, his feet planted on the sides of him, reaching toward the ceiling, fiddling with something. It must be the wee hours of the morning- what was this kid doing up? Harry's arms lowered, and he carefully stepped from over him and ghosted out of the room, shutting the office door silently behind him. Bauer blinked at the ceiling, seeing something dark hanging above him. Digging into his bag by the bench, he pulled out his flashlight and shined it at the object, smothering a yelp when the gleam of a small beady eye shone back at him.

It was one of those dreamcatchers...

Bauer shut the light off and relaxed, staring at the dark object, mulling it over. How had Harry known he was having a nightmare? Had he been groaning in his sleep? He blushed at the thought and turned on his side, wishing the bench was a little softer as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber, with the stray thought that Harry's room was too far away to hear him.

---

He woke naturally, and rather stiffly that morning- or was it afternoon? And sat up, blinking blearily at the office. He stretched his arms as he yawned, and felt a stiff flakiness on his left one. Looking at it, he found that parts of it was covered in dark... He blinked and ran a finger over it, watching it come off on his finger, a brownish red, and he sniffed it. Iron. It smelled like- His eyes darted up at the dreamcatcher and yelped when he spotted the blood crusted around the feathered head.

That thing had been fresh! Its blood had been dripping on him while he slept!

Holding his arm away from his body, trying not to be such a girl about it, Bauer went in search of that bathroom, ready to crawl out of his skin.

**TBC**

**Andy Bauer had been originally Jack Bauer- that is, until I saw a commercial for _24_, and realized that it was the same name as _Keifer Sutherland's_ character. I was very sad about this, and was reluctant to change the last name, so he better not have a brother named Andy on there!**


	3. A Lesson Somewhere in There

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Daystar Clarion

_**Warnings: I glazed over the details of bomb making, for obvious reasons. I don't want to be responsible for some wacko deciding to take notes.**_

**  
Servant of the Dark**

**Chapter Three: A Lesson Somewhere in There**

The television news channel seemed unable to decide whether it wanted to report events of Southern California or Northern, so it spent most of the morning hour bouncing in between LA County and San Francisco, which was very ambiguous, since there was over four hundred miles between the two counties, and left the hour jam- packed with bad news- drug deals gone bad, burglary, a few sexual assaults, countless traffic accidents, several domestic disputes, and a couple murders. But of course, at the top of the hour was Michael Montgomery, still missing, and of course, the many other law agents that had disappeared over the years as well, ranging from simple Traffic Control, to persons from the NSA, CIA, FBI, DEA, IRS, INS, and the many other branches the government possessed. Harry remembered every face of the people Grem brought home, and particularly remembered how they died. Grem particularly enjoyed taking people of importance, because it frightened the governments when one of their own proved immune to the dangers that Grem brought about. Grem had even taken a senator or two from highly populated states.

The officials didn't want to say that they had no clues leading up to his disappearance, and settled for saying that it was unclear whether he was a victim of the ITG Terrorist Organization or not. They wouldn't know until they found his body.

He was sitting near the edge of the bed in his briefs, smearing soothing cream on his swollen face, making the bruising Michael had caused disappear. The ointment was one he had made himself, with a dab of phoenix tears, something almost impossible to acquire, but Grem had given him a vial full. He had asked him where he had gotten it, and Grem had laughed and said, "Have you ever made a phoenix cry? It's an exquisite ordeal Harry- all you need are a few young victims, all under about ten...phoenix'...they are sensitive creatures- don't like to see people suffer. You can get them to cry you a river with the right victims."

He had never used any of the tears on Grem's victims, there was no point in that- he always killed them. No, he used the tears in his personal potions, for the days when Grem wanted to remind him what pain was.

"There you are!" He glanced over to Bauer in the doorway, looking relieved. "I was looking for you, even though you showed me around, this place is still damned big." He entered into the room, eyes zeroing on the bruises on his arms. Though he could've well have used the ointment on his arms, he knew that Bauer had seen the bruises yesterday, and a muggle mind was rather fragile when it came to the workings of magic. But the new bruises had to go.

"In other news, the search continues for Anthony Bauer, an ex-demolitionist connected to the Wayside Bombing in Almont, Colorado. Bauer was last seen at the Arco gas station on Imperial and West St.-" A grainy camera from the station showed a man walking into the a gas station. Harry looked at the man, who stood frozen and pale, eyes wide as the TV showed pictures of him, one clearly his license I.D, another of him and a brunette grinning at the camera around a pint of beer. Next they showed a burning building, firefighters and police officers running about, a man carrying a bloody child away from the wreckage, FBI personal seeming to hover about, woman crying hysterically.

"Jesus," Bauer breathed, his eyes darting away from the screen to look at him. "I had nothing to do with that," Harry closed the lid of the ointment, gazing at the man. "I don't do buildings with people in them. I've never physically hurt anyone."

Harry felt a bit puzzled by his protestations over the bombing- he didn't care, it meant nothing to him. But he supposed he was used to Grem taking credit for all the things he had done, describing his deeds intimately if Harry hadn't been there to witness it. He wasn't used to denial. Harry stood up from the bed and dug in the drawer for some clothes, turning to look at the man when he heard him hiss aloud. The man was staring at his back.

"That looks bad. How did you get that?" Color was returning to his face now that the newscaster had turned his attention to the inner workings of Chinatown. Indeed, very ambitious of the news station. Who did it think it was, CNN? Harry touched the Devourer briefly.

"It's a birthmark," he replied flatly,and watched embarrassment flush over the mans face as he pulled on a green shirt and blue jeans.

"Sorry about that," Bauer said. "It looked like a bruise...like the ones on your arms..."

Harry brushed hair out of his eyes and stared at the man, waiting, allowing him to arrive to his own conclusions. Like the brain surgeon, he would think that Grem, his older brother, was violent with him. Though Grem was of no relation to him, he _was_ very violent with him, and of course, the surgeon had become very intimate with what Grem could and did do. He had tried for many months to get Harry to help him escape, a wasted effort on his part.

Bauer, curiously, knew nothing of Grem. He wasn't the usual victim that Grem brought, nothing about Bauer was part of the norm. It made him nervous, something he wasn't used to, and he wanted another session with the Dementors.

"Okay, this is awkward," Bauer put his thumbs through his belt hoops and gave him an uneasy grin. "How about we get something to eat, then I can show you the basics. Does this joint have a kitchen?"

Harry shook his head. Though there was a kitchen and cafeteria, it wasn't in use, unless one counted the dining cockroaches, though he didn't know what they could possibly be eating. A look of concern passed over Bauer's face. "Well, do you know where there's a burger joint, or a waffle house, or..." His voice trailed off as Harry shook his head again.

"This is now considered a ghost town. No one lives in Betteravia anymore."

"Yes...Grem told me that. Unfortunately, I'm a bit on the hypoglycemic side of things and-"

"You need a certain amount of calories each day or your blood sugar levels will drop dangerously."

Bauer looked surprised. "Er, yes well, that's more serious than what I have. But low blood sugar will make me a bit weak and tired, which is bad when you're making bombs."

Harry said nothing, waiting for the man to decide what to do.

"Where's the next town?"

"Guadalupe, but it's not walking distance."

"Damn...Grem has the van. You know when he'll be back?"

Harry shook his head. Bauer frowned at him. "Does he leave you alone like this all the time?"

"Yes," Harry replied, disinterested in where this was going. "There is a junk yard two and half miles from here. You may find a running vehicle there."

"Alright," a determined look came over his face. "Let's do this. And on the way, I'll tell you about the basics. Show me the way."

Harry pulled on socks and shoes, opened a drawer and pulled out one of the many billfolds Grem always left behind, and led him through the mill, pausing at the gated off area that led down to Montgomery and all the other bodies. He would need to see the man later to check up on his wounds and to feed him. Hopefully the man wouldn't be violent again.

Bauer followed him out into the morning heat and together they trekked to the junkyard.

"The first thing you should know is that bombs are dangerous, the exploding of them, of course, but also the making of them. Oh yes, bomb making is dangerous business."

Harry looked at the man, who was breaking into a sweat in the rising heat, but seemed unaware of it in the seriousness of his lecture. Harry listened- it was what he did, how he learned. Information rushing though his brain, sparking neurons, making connections, storing up at an impossible rate. Grem claimed that he had expanded Harry's mind in order that he could obtain and retain vast amounts of information, so that at any given time, it could be used.

"You can tell sometimes, the people who make homemade bombs, they usually have missing fingers, or have burns here and there on them." He lifted his hands, and Harry could see little burn marks riddled along them. "I've been reasonably lucky when it comes to the making of explosives."

They walked, Bauer talked, Bauer became excited, probably delighted in a new experience.

"One of the first things to also know-no wait...I guess the second thing after respecting the fact that bombs are dangerous, is that a secure dry environment is needed. You'd be amazed the types of things that can cause an unplanned explosion. For an instance, the dust from wheat flour is combustible, or aluminum powder. You gotta watch out for things like this. Shoot a gun or light a match with that in the air and you're in trouble." Bauer frowned. "Which leads me to my first concern, being that the mill is very dusty."

"I know a room or two that isn't," Harry replied as he lead the man down a gravel road and up to the rusted gates of the graveyard.

"Wow...we're here already," he glanced up at the sun, which was high in the sky. They had been walking for approximately an hour. The junkyard was full of broken tractors, rusted car shells, smashed motor homes, useless refrigerators, and other miscellaneous items left behind by the fleeing residents of Betteravia.

"I believe there are cars back there," he led the man through the winding pathways, air full of dust, gasoline, and the sharp tang of metal. Sitting exactly where he remembered was a group of vehicles in rather decent shape, and Bauer eagerly approached them, eyeing a faded red Jeep Wrangler.

He whistled in appreciation as he leaned in the doorway and spied the keys sitting in the ignition. "Who left these here?" He sat in the dirty seat and turned on the Jeep, which sputtered to life almost reluctantly. "Hot damn!" he crowed, slapping the wheel in delight. "The tank is half full too!" he put the vehicle in reverse and slowly backed up in the minimal space, then pulled up beside Harry. "Engine sounds pretty good too. Who would leave a perfectly good Jeep here?"

this here?"

Harry pulled himself up into the passenger side. "Many left in a hurry," he buckled himself in as Bauer leaned on the wheel and cocked a brow at him.

"I swear, it's like you've come straight out of a Stephen King or Dean Koontz novel." Harry smiled, Bauer snorted. "Okay kid, which direction?"

He pointed north, and Bauer turned the Jeep in that direction, passing the mill and turning on Betteravia Road, which would take them directly into downtown Guadalupe. As he drove, he continued on with his very interesting lecture.

"You'd be surprised what kind of household chemicals can make a decent explosive. For instance, acetone- a.k.a nail polish remover. Common ingredient. Clairoxide. Battery acid. Fertilizers, like um...ammonium nitrate are often used as well. Napalm is made with gasoline and aluminum soaps. Good for fire bombs...or flamethrowers...We're going to stay away from flamethrowers unless you're planning on fighting vampires." Bauer cackled at this. "Not that there's a such thing as vampires, but if there _were_, flamethrowers would be a good way to kill them, because it's said that the undead are highly combustible."

Harry doubted anyone could get close enough to a vampire with a flamethrower, not with their keen sense of smell. If they didn't smell the gasoline, they would be able to smell the adrenaline coming off of the person, or fear. Perhaps they would hear the person's rapid heartbeat. He supposed Grem would be able to do it, Grem did not feel fear, and every vampire they had ever done business with were instinctively frightened of him. "And that was just naming a very few things that could be used as bombs. A lot of normal house hold cleaners can make a big bang." He sped up and moved around a Honda Civic as they approached the outskirts of the town. "We'll pick up the remover after we eat."

Guadalupe sat about a mile from the beach, a small town with with one shopping center with a slow and easy appeal to it-most of the businesses were in Spanish due to the large Hispanic population in the town. Bauer drove around until he found an eatery that he was familiar with, McDonalds, and bought several Big Macs and an order of fries, super-sized at the drive thru. Harry bought himself two Big Macs and one medium fry, only managing to eat half of both before stuffing it away in the bag. He was never one with a big appetite. After Bauer was suitably fed, he drove them over to a small mom and pop store and brought one bottle of nail polish remover along with a hat, which he quickly put on.

"It's never been proven, but the rumor is that the government watches what people buy in these stores, watching for large purchases on dangerous items." They stopped in front of a pharmacy. "So never, _ever_ buy multiple items from the same store. Always go to multiple places." They bought two more, along with a bag of cotton swabs, several Timex watches, and a vial of black nail polish. "Next time we'll paint your nails, you know, to make it look authentic."

They stopped at a grocery store and bought several canned goods; Bauer was very shifty about it, purposely not looking into cameras and avoiding eye contact. Then Bauer drove around town until he found a nursery full of ficus saplings, several types of palm trees, and an assortment of flowers and seeds. Bauer moved to the area where they sold fertilizers and stood over them, inspecting them carefully with a shrewd eye. Harry wasn't a horticulturist, he did not grow plants, and knew only which ones went into potions and which ones didn't. So he wasn't sure why Bauer was staring at fertilizer. As if sensing his confusion, Bauer looked up at him from where he was kneeling, glanced around quickly to make sure they were alone, then gestured for him to kneel beside him.

"Another very common ingredient in bombs," he whispered, "are fertilizers. Now, what I'm looking for is either fertilizers with potassium nitrate in them, or ammonium nitrate. I'm kinda hoping for ammonium nitrate because they also use that one in rocket propellant, so it's a bit stronger with a bigger bang than potassium nitrate. But either is fine." He grabbed a fifteen pound bag and peered at the ingredients. "Here we go- this will do. Come on."

Bauer quickly purchased the bag, mentioning in front of the cashier that Harry's mother would be happy they got this brand for her flower garden; he had nodded in agreement, familiar with the game.

"I figure I'll lay low for a couple of years, maybe gain some weight, grow a beard or something." He said as they headed back to Betteravia. "That's the good thing about living in America, being American. We have short term memory. They'll be outraged about this for about a month, then they'll lose steam and move on. There are bills to pay, cars to buy, lives to live. They'll forget about me when something else happens. Maybe another ITG finding or something."

It was different; Grem really didn't care to hide his deeds- when he was done with the batch of humans he- or they had killed, Grem left them for the world to find. He delighted in the reactions, in the fear and distrust it caused, the pain and despair. He loved to watch Louis Freeh, Head of FBI, make his promises of restitution and justice, he loved to watch families cry. His black eyes drank it all in, he did not want people to forget, he did not believe in closure. No, Grem did not hide.

-----------------

Michael sat up, holding back a groan as the door opened to his little cell. He gasped, bile rising in his throat as Grem entered, wearing the same grey suit, same short spiky hair. He stepped into the room and took a deep breath through his nose. "Ah," he murmured. "Smells like pain, and fear." His eyes darted around the cell before stopping on him where he was half reclined in his corner. "Smells like urine too." His black eyes seemed to glitter with amusement.

"What do you want?" Michael gasped. "I'm only a police officer! I make only enough to support my family. Is it money? Is it money that you want? Drugs?"

Grem smiled. "No Mr. Montgomery. I neither desire money or drugs."

"Then what do you want? What is the point of all this?"

Grem gave a light chuckle. "You're a servant of the Law, Michael. Do serial killers _need_ a motive to do as they please?"

Michael wanted to hide. He had several friends who worked in Homicide, serial killers were their nightmares.

"And the boy?" he asked, willing himself to stop trembling. A look of intrigue passed over the man's face.

"Harry? What stories have you been telling that child of mine, hm?" He stepped over to Michael and leaned over at the waist, hands on his knees. "Have you been telling him about Margaret? Brittney and Ashley? Pretty little girls you have- look just like their mother."

Michael felt rage and terror rise in him, pain disappeared, and he reached out and grabbed Grem by his blue tie.

"You stay away from them, _you hear me_?! _You stay away_! They have nothing to do with this!" he spat.

Grem continued to smile, not bothering to release himself or his tie. "But Mr. Montgomery, neither do you. I just picked you up off the street because you responded to Harry's pitiful cries. It could have been anyone, like that Mexican kid- what his face..."

"Alejandro," Michael provided, appalled that this man didn't even remember the names of his victims. Michael released him, but Grem did not move back.

"Oh yes, Alejandro. He too responded to Harry's screams. He's perfected the sound of terror," His black eyes glazed over a bit, eyes drifting from his face to above his head. "I used to stick pins in his arms to get that sound, but now he does it on command."

This man was a monster. Grem's eyes cleared, intensity drilling into him.

"Did you tell him about them, your family? Did you try to appeal to his sense of humanity?" Michael resisted the urge to avert his eyes. "Do you think he'll help you? I know what you're thinking, he's just a poor abused child afraid of his cruel captor. If given an out, he'd take it and run. With you, since he takes such _good care of you_." He settled his chin on his fists, elbows on his knees and he crouched. "Buuut, Harry's had multiple chances to make a run for it, to call the police. I've left him alone for weeks at a time. You see those bodies out there- yes, I can tell you've seen them, Harry helped make them, _all_ of them, down to the children. You should see his cold eyes as he watches. They plead with him, but he ignores them. They may as well be chickens in a slaughter house." Grem stood up, looking down at him. "I guarantee it, the next time you see him, which is going to be very soon, because he takes such _good care_ of his victims, he'll be contemplating killing you. He doesn't know what to do with a loose end, so naturally he'll come to the conclusion that he'll have to kill you if I don't. Maybe he'll shoot you in the head with that Tokarev TT-33 I left for him, or maaaybe he'll overdose you on morphine and watch your life slip away with his cold apathetic eyes."

Michael was shaking, knowing that this man, if he was a man, was not lying.

"Afterward, no doubt, he'll give you new fingers," he gestured carelessly at his swollen bandaged foot. "And maybe a new foot. It makes him happy, no doubt." Grem moved to the door. '"We'll see, won't we?" He smiled happily at the man on the floor before exiting.

----------------

The moment Harry was within the mill's walls, he knew Grem had been there. He placed the grocery bags on the floor and quickly moved through the mill, body and mind searching through the factory. The Dementors were still in that way they always were when Grem was around, hungry but patient. At one point he wondered if there was a creature on this planet that wasn't terrified of him; he soon discovered that crows were not bothered by him. In fact, wherever they went, the black birds seemed to follow, attracted to the scent of death.

*Grem?* he called, mind questing to make the connection with the man, but there link was weak- Grem had left. Had he come to finish Michael off? He glanced back at Bauer, who was lugging several bags in.

"Help me out, would ya?" He grunted a bit as he settled bags down next to Harry's discarded one. "We gotta figure out where we are going to put the food." Harry returned to his bags and picked them up.

"There's a cafeteria," he led the man down some halls and into the kitchen area.

"I thought you said there wasn't a kitchen," Bauer complained.

"You were referring to a working kitchen, which we didn't have, until now." They cleared off one the long silver serving counters of dust and placed the bags on them. "Excuse me," Harry moved away from the man and headed for their work room, glancing behind himself to make sure Bauer wasn't following as he pulled out the key from his back pocket and unlocked the fence, the McDonald's bag still in his other hand.

He went down the stairs and into the storeroom where the bodies lay, stepping over them as he approached the door holding Michael. He unlocked it and opened the door, connecting eyes with grey frightened ones. The man was half reclined in a corner, eyes round under a dirty face, and there was a fresh quality of fear about him that said Grem had paid him a personal visit. Already his breath was increasing to that of a wheeze as they stared at him. His eyes ran over his body, searching for new wounds, but from what he could see in the doorway, there was nothing new on the officers body. The torture must be psychological then. Grem had a way with words, he knew just what to say to terrify a person. Michael's eyes darted to the hand hidden behind his back, and he continued to shake more.

Harry had a decision to make. Grem had returned, but he had not killed Michael Montgomery. Did he have other plans for the man, or was he waiting for Harry to make that decision? It was a choice he had never had to make before, though he had killed several people before, it hadn't been in this manner. Grem had his victims, then he had people to teach Harry a lesson, like that NSA officer he had chained in a room and starved for a couple of days. When the man had look particularly desperate, Grem had forced Harry into the room and had told the man that if he succeeded in killing him, Grem would set him free. Harry had been eight. The man had been horrified and reluctant to do anything of the sort for about a day, but eventually survival ruled over morality, and the man had attempted to strangle Harry, even through Grem had given the man a metal letter opener. Harry instead had played dead, a very useful tactic in a fight, and when the man had released him, Harry had stabbed him in the neck with the discarded letter opener.

There had been lesson in that experience somewhere, perhaps when the chips were down, survival was what ruled a man. Harry understood this, and clearly there was a lesson in Michael's predicament somewhere. Harry continued to stare. Or maybe he was over-analyzing motives, and Grem simply wasn't ready to kill Michael, even though he was by far the least interesting of Grem's victims. The man's face was grey now. Maybe Harry would give him another day- perhaps Grem would come back and finish him off- he hoped Grem would. He couldn't be bothered with both Montgomery _and_ Bauer.

He stepped forward into the room, and Michael made a small noise in the back of his throat. Harry revealed the bag of fast food and tossed it beside the man, who jumped and stared at it incredulously in disbelief. _He thought I was going to kill him_, Harry realized.

Harry left the room quickly and entered the Dementor's domain; they took away his confusion, leaving him calm and apathetic, a state he preferred to exist in. If only he could carry a Dementor in his pocket wherever he went. Remembering Bauer, he left the cold darkness of the Dementors and went into his workroom, gathering petri dishes, Bunsen burners, lighters and beacons, vials and syringes. He took pliers and containers, scissors and duck-tape, put it all in one bag and carried it out, pausing only to poke at the hanging unicorn's flesh, which now had a leathery quality to it, telling him that it was very ready. Tonight, when Bauer rested, he would begin the process of breaking it down.

He returned to the cafeteria lugging all the equipment he imagined the man might need. Bauer was pulling out what looked like dynamite to him along with several other items. Harry took out his items and placed them carefully in a row, glancing up at Bauer to see the man's eyes on his objects. There was a seriousness in his face that gave Harry pause, and he stood with his hands at his side and waited.

"Where did you get those?" Bauer asked. Harry glanced down at his set then looked at him. "I mean, please tell me you guys aren't running a meth lab down there somewhere. I know how that shit is made, and I don't want to be anywhere near that."

"Grem's not interested in things like that," Harry replied.

"What _is_ he interested in?" he could see that the man was frustrated. "I mean, he's been gone all day, left you without food...what does he deal in?"

_Death_, Harry thought. That was the obvious answer. "You tread toward dangerous answers," Harry said softly, gazing at the man. Bauer stared back. The cafeteria was silent- it reminded him of his workroom where he put the bodies back together.

Bauer sighed. "Fine, fine. I shouldn't ask, I shouldn't _want_ to know. Just tell me whatever I teach you today isn't part of some master design to blow up the country or something." Harry just smiled, which did not please the man. "I'm going to Hell," he muttered, picking up some of the objects and turning the bag of fertilizer toward him.

"Okay, let's begin."

------------

Bauer never wanted to be a teacher, never wanted to be an educator of any type; he remembered what kind of hellion he had been growing up. So he had never taught anything worthwhile, and though bomb making was really something to be considered _worthwhile, _there was a certain level of excitement involved as he began to show Harry how to make a bomb. At his age, assuming Harry was somewhere near the thirteen to fifteen age bracket, he could have been touching everything, asking a million questions, and most likely would have blown them both up already. But Harry sat beside him and put on the gloves and goggles without complaining that they looked stupid, or were restricting. He did not touch anything, watched him with those strange green eyes, gazing at him, taking in every word. Who knew teaching could be so pleasant, despite what they were making? And he had that itch again, that itch that had gotten him in trouble in the first place; he wanted to see something destroyed, blown to pieces. It was an eager feeling, one that pressed against him, made his sure, experienced hands move a little quicker, so that he had to slow down and carefully work.

"So are you sure there isn't anyone around? Because there's a whole lot to blow up here, and I don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

"We're the only two," Harry replied as he carefully placed the detonator on the plastic explosive, his hands unusually steady and nimble for a teenager. Bauer had quickly come to the conclusion that Harry was one of those kids who speak only when addressed. He knew a kid or two like that when he was a kid- they had bruises like his.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

Harry's hands froze, not looking at him, eyes leveled on the explosive in his hand.

"A long way gone," he replied, face and voice empty.

Bauer opened his mouth to ask if Grem was his brother, but decided not to. He just needed a place to lay low, Betteravia was perfect and empty. He just needed a place to stay- there was no need to make waves.

They had made four by the time it was dark, and his arms ached, his stomach grumbled.

"Another rule," he said as he stood up and stretched. "Never deal with dangerous explosives when you're tired, not if you want to keep your hands, or your face...or your life in general." They cleaned up the area and Bauer decided to make a quick dinner of pork and beans. Harry disappeared, and he was alone in the eerie silence of the mill, which was uncomfortable so he went back to the office/bedroom and took his radio back to the cafeteria to play some music as he cooked the pot of beans on a portable burner. The tunes relaxed him, soothed the excitement that was rising in his blood. Was it a curse that made him want to destroy things?

He shook his head, destroying the thoughts as he searched for a bowl or two, finding some metal ones in the industrial sized kitchen. He poured some into each bowl and went to Harry's room to serve the teen, but found that it was empty despite the TV being on. It was on a news channel like earlier that day, and he resisted the urge to cringe- he didn't want to see his face on there again. He placed the bowl on a dresser and noticed what looked like a stone walking stick leaning between dresser and bed. Bauer picked it up, feeling the weight of it, tapped a nail against it- yep, it was some type of stone, it was heavy enough for it. At the thick base where his hand was near, were several spirals of, he moved it closer to his eyes to inspect- and yes, those were teeth. Yellow molars, what looked like _human_ molars, and teeth that were unusually sharp for a human. A shark's teeth, maybe? He quickly placed the stick back between bed and dresser, wiping his hands against his jeans. A sweet ringing caused him to look up at the Dreamcatchers, connecting eyes with one crows' head. Another had the skull of a small cat, a really small cat...like a kitten kind of cat...

"What is it?"

Bauer jumped, seeing that Harry was standing in the doorway, staring at him. "I was looking for you. I made some dinner." He gestured toward the bowl. "Eat up, and tomorrow I'll show you what proper homemade bombs can do."

Harry nodded and picked up the bowl. They ate together in silence, both eyes glued to the television and an extremely disturbing episode of the_ Twilight Zone. _It was one where there was a monster on the wing of a plane, bashing at the engines in an attempt to crash the plane. It wasn't something he wanted to watch while in a room with hanging dead animals from the ceilings and creepy sticks with people's teeth on them. He crossed himself, then blushed when he realized Harry was staring flatly at him.

"You watch this stuff all the time?" he asked, finishing up his beans, feeling marginally satisfied. Harry shrugged, placing his half eaten bowl beside him. Bauer stood up and stretched. "Well, I'm going to hit the sac," he grinned down at the youth. "I'm one of those people who go straight to bed when I have something exciting to do the next day. Just can't handle the anticipation, you know?" He was about to leave, but paused, remembering the Dreamcatcher. "Um, thanks for the Dreamcatcher, but, won't it rot?"

"No. It'll dry up and harden," Harry replied, staring at the television from the bed, legs crossed.

"Okay, well, thanks," He moved to the doorway, then stopped again. "Uh, why'd you put it up anyway?"

Harry's eyes drifted away from the T.V to look at him. "You were having a nightmare."

Bauer flushed, surprised. "How'd you know? I'm quite a distance from here."

The kids eyes drifted up to the ceiling, Bauer looked up to see that the Dreamcatchers were hanging from multiple gray pipes. "They run through most of the mill," Harry said, looking at him.

Bauer nodded, "Well, goodnight then. I hope those work- don't want to keep you awake."

"They work," Harry replied seriously.

Bauer nodded again, hiding his disbelief as he exited and headed down the cold halls toward his office, stopping in the cafeteria to retrieve his radio.

----------

Harry selected the sharpest knife he had and turned to the unicorn's hanging body. Earlier that evening he had taken out several of its usable organs, placing them in jars of unicorn blood, and was now ready to peel off the animal's hide. It was tedious work, even though the flesh had dried, fat and tissue still clung to it as he peeled it away carefully, not wanting any holes or tears in the hide. He remembered the first time he had seen a unicorn, a live one. He had been seven, and it had been so beautiful. He had gone to touch it, had just wanted to know what perfection felt like, to touch something that the normal world said was fantasy. When he had gotten close enough to touch its soft, sensitive nose, the chained creature had speared him with its horn, just below his diaphragm. Grem had almost laughed himself sick, only pausing to pull the squealing equine up to hang. Harry had sat on the cold ground, his blood pouring from the hole made in his stomach, and didn't feel the least sorry when Grem cut the creature's throat. If anything, he hated unicorns now, hated anything that was pretty and pure. There had been a lesson somewhere in that-Grem had all kinds of lessons he felt Harry should learn. Perhaps the lesson was; pretty meant deadly, pretty meant betrayal, or cruelty. But he just learned that he didn't like unicorns.

Though he was quick and skilled, the skinning took more than an hour, leaving him aching in the shoulders and back. He pulled up a stool beside the carcass, climbing upon it to saw off the hooves, then finishing it off by cutting off its tail and scooping out its eyes, which he also put in a jar of unicorn blood. The unicorn blood actually belonged to this particular one- the previous unicorn's organs had been subjected to one before it. However, Grem had sold that blood to England's current dark lord, Voldemort, three years ago.

Harry stepped back from the finished carcass. *Come,* he ordered, and the Devourer responded. Harry quickly pulled off his shirt as the demon began to pull from him, felt it pull on his magic as it became a solid creature behind him, all black scales, talons and teeth. Most of it's face was teeth, in fact, with large luminous red eyes. It stood on its hind legs, cresting at ten feet of muscle, sinew and deadliness.

*Hungry,* it said, and he gestured to the unicorn carcass.

*Eat,* he ordered, and the demon leaped upon the hanging body with a ravenous gusto, tearing it apart quickly and shoving every part of it down its throat. He had a vested interest in seeing the Devourer fed; it siphoned his magic when not fed properly. When the last of the unicorn had disappeared down the demon's throat, it turned to him and wrapped its body about him, not completely touching him, but about him in a way that spoke of possession, of ownership. Harry stroked one of its legs absently, mind elsewhere. He sensed that their time here in Betteravia was short, that something was about to happen. He just didn't know _what_.

After he sent the Devourer back to its place upon his body, he took his leftover beans and went to Michael, bringing along his usual medical bag. The man said nothing to him as he treated him, rewrapping his hand, watching carefully for infections and swabbing it with copious amounts of antibiotics. He contemplated the man's foot. The bones inside had been crushed, so that some splinted out above the flesh. It was swollen most of the time, and he knew the man wouldn't be able to walk properly for the rest of his very short life, and so decided to leave it for after the man was dead. He had several feet he could replace it with. He left the beans and water, face blank over the smell of urine and fecal matter. He'd clean it out after he killed the man, _if_ Grem didn't return tomorrow.

He left then, after dosing the man with more morphine, ignoring the barely concealed looks of fright Montgomery sent at the syringe. He took a shower, then went to bed, staring at the Dreamcatchers, mind still going. Something wasn't right. He tilted his ears toward the ceiling, and he could hear the music coming from Bauer's room. He waited another hour, and still his mind wouldn't shut down. With a sigh, Harry sat up, grabbing blanket and pillow, and went down to sleep with the Dementors. With their cold, numbing presence, his worries, whatever they were, were eaten away greedily by the starving creatures. He curled up on the floor with blanket and pillow, feeling the Dementors moving about him, occasionally touching his hair, and drifted away to sleep.

------------

On days like this, Bauer always woke with way more energy than was allowed, but he was off the cot and looking for Harry in no time. He quickly stuffed his face with a Twinkie he had bought yesterday to get his blood sugar going, even though he didn't particularly feel like eating and went to Harry's room, expecting the teenager to be there. He wasn't. He went to the cafeteria, expecting the kid to be messing with the bombs, that was a normal thing to be doing, but the cafeteria was empty. He frowned. He searched around, going from room to room- though they actually couldn't really be considered rooms. Most of them were large enough to hold a three bedroom house. But they were all empty.

Bauer was getting nervous. He wasn't one to go off on flights of fantasy- or horror, for that matter, but hadn't he read a book like this, or something? He broke into a trot and went to the entrance, sliding open one of the doors, grimacing as the sun beamed at him. Once they had adjusted to the light, he stared out at the fields and fences, at the crows that sat there or hopped around in the yellow grass. Harsh cawing made him jump, and he looked up at one of the black birds, not three feet from him, sitting on a small pole. He stared at it, and it tilted its head this way and that, small beady eyes focused on him.

"Uh, Harry?" he called loudly. "Where are you?" He took his eyes from the bird and moved back into the mill, calling for the kid. He stopped before the fenced off area, and that was when he noticed that it was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. Was Grem back? He opened his mouth to call out again, eyes focused on the set of wide stairs that led down into what he assumed was another floor, when Harry suddenly appeared, walking sedately up the stairs with the demeanor of someone having just been awakened, especially by the expression on his face and the state of his hair. When he reached the top, it was clear the kid had been sleeping down there, judging by the pillow and blanket he was dragging behind him.

"I thought no one was supposed to go down there," Bauer said with a frown.

Harry moved toward the gate, exiting and producing a key to lock it with. He did this with a sleepy clumsiness, which was slightly reassuring with his usual composed disposition. But when he spoke, his voice was clear and very awake. "I said that _you_ weren't supposed to go in there," he turned to him, and Bauer's eyes rose in concern. The kid's face was stark white, a kind of white he never thought a human's could go, and his lips had a slight blue tinge to them.

"Whoa, are you sick?" Bauer moved closer to him. Harry frowned up at him, the sleepiness disappearing.

"No," he replied, heading back toward his room, still dragging the blanket and pillow behind. He tossed both on his bed and slumped down on the bed, head in hands, eyes shut.

"Aww, come on," Bauer crouched in front of him, inspecting his face, seeing that some color had returned, and his lips were no longer blue. "Today is a good day," he coached. "We're going to blow something up. I'll even let you choose."

Harry opened his eyes and stared at him, eyes devoid of the excitement he imagined a young healthy kid his age should have. He sighed and stood up, backing away from the kid, watching as he got up and began to fish around for something to wear.

"I'll get everything prepared. Meet me in the cafeteria in five."

The youth nodded silently. Turns out Harry must not be a morning person. Bauer paused by the gated off area, staring at the dark stairs. What was down there? Hopefully not a meth lab, and he didn't like the way Harry had looked, coming up from it. There was seriously something illegal down there if they didn't want him, a fugitive from the law, to know of it. It made him uneasy. He returned to the cafeteria and packed the ones they were going to use. Maybe just two...yes, two was safe. He looked up to see Harry standing next to him, looking very awake and his usual, patient, old self.

"Alright, so, anything you wanted to blow up near here?" he asked with a grin. Harry became thoughtful, then nodded. He followed the kid out of the mill and into a fresh morning, sun shining, the air crisp...the crows frolicking. He frowned at the birds. He just didn't like crows. Harry took him a ways down the mill, stopping in front of a shed, clearly old, on its way to dilapidating. He opened the door, and backed away to let Bauer look in.

"The fuck..." Inside it was empty, nothing but dirt, except for a single metal chair sitting in the middle of it. The chair had straps on the armrests and legs. Bauer looked back at Harry, looking into those empty green eyes, waiting for the boy to say something, some kind of emotion maybe, but the kid only stared back at him with that same patient/disinterested look, as if he didn't care what Bauer thought of the shed, or whether he was going to blow it up. Bauer set his bag down and pulled out one of the explosives, setting the Timex watch to two minutes to ten. "Gives us time to get to a safe distance."

He tossed the bomb on the chair and grabbed Harry's arm, rushing to the side of the mill, pulling the youth behind it. Together they peeked around the side, Bauer ignoring the noise from the surrounding birds. Harry crouched under him, peering at the shed. Two minutes seemed to take forever.

The shed exploded, a loud bang that made his heart leap, and Harry jump under him, debris flying everywhere, smoke rising into the air and the area. The crows screamed, taking flight, a mass of them flying overhead. Bauer moved from behind the wall, Harry following him, waving smoke from his face.

"Not bad," If the blood could sing, Bauer's would be doing a sonnet. It was a curse. He looked back at Harry, and was pleased to see that the kid was grinning, his eyes seemed to almost glow. But it was surely a trick of light. "You like that, eh? You say Betteravia is empty? Let's go into town, see what we can do."

Harry looked utterly intrigued. The shed was small stuff, really small stuff, and he wanted to see something bigger go down. He stomped out some wood that had caught flame and went over to the Jeep.

Bauer had never been to a ghost town before, but he could see how they had gotten that name. Driving to downtown Betteravia was like driving through the set of a scary movie, the kind where the residents of a town had all mysteriously disappeared and it was the protagonists' job to find out what happened to them. Cars had been left on the curbs, stores still had names on them. It didn't have a dilapidated feel to it, wasn't in ill repair. It looked like any bustling small town should, minus people...

"What'd you say happened to everyone here again?" Bauer asked uneasily, glancing at his passenger, who looked quite comfortable and making him feel like a sissy.

"Nobody knows for sure," Harry replied. Bauer hit the brakes, staring at the kid incredulously. Harry looked at him with a frown. "Isn't that what you want me to say?"

"No!" Bauer almost squeaked. Harry's dark brows rose. "Where'd they go?"

Harry unhooked his seat belt and stepped out of the jeep, looking up at him. "The mill shut down, people lost their jobs, went to other towns to find some. Is that mundane enough for you?" His green eyes seemed to flash with amusement. He turned and headed toward one of the buildings.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Bauer looked behind himself, about to park the car, then realized that he didn't have to. There wasn't anyone here but them. He didn't have to move to the side of the road. He felt momentarily stupid. Bauer grabbed his bag and hopped out, following the kid into the building, only realizing upon entering, that it was a church. It had that church smell, and he saw at the head that there was a rather large cross on the wall, amongst murals of Jesus, his apostles, and the Virgin Mary.

Halfway into the pews, Harry was sitting, staring straight ahead. Bauer rushed over to him.

"Harry! We can't blow up a church! It's sacrilegious! And I'm catholic!"

Harry looked at him with a frown. "There's no need to whisper, no one is here but us."

Bauer sat down next to him. "Well, I'm not blowing up a church. That's a one way trip to Hell."

"That where you're going?" Harry asked after a moment of silence.

"What? To Hell? Why would you think that's where I'm going to go?" Bauer didn't like to think he was going to spend eternity burning forever in a black pit full of fire.

Harry continued to stare at the cross. "I've never met anyone good enough to go to Heaven," he whispered. "I've only met a few that were bad enough to go to Hell."

Bauer stared at the kid. Was he good enough to go to Heaven? He thought not. He blew up other people's property...he had stolen things, slept around without being married, got in a few fights...He imagined the standards for getting into Heaven were really high. But was he bad enough for Hell? He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't raped some poor lady, didn't seek out people to harm them. What _were_ the prerequisites for Hell?

"These questions suck," he muttered lamely. Harry shrugged.

"Everyone wants to go to Heaven, but no one wants to die," he said.

"Too true," Bauer agreed with a nod. "But I'm not blowing up a church. I don't care if its abandoned."

"I like it here," Harry replied, eyes drifting over the other pews. "It's quiet here, when no one is around."

"It's quiet at the mill," Bauer offered.

"No, the mill makes sounds. There's water dripping in some places, there's the creaking of the metal. There's the birds. Here, there is nothing."

Bauer brought his feet up on the back of the pew before him and rested his hands behind his head. "You know, I got a little brother about your age. When I first saw, you, I thought you looked a bit like Andrew. But, you're completely different. An enigma. But I like you. You're a cool kid." He glanced over at the youth to see him staring at him, eyes empty. Bauer looked up at the ceiling. "You got any place here that you want to blow up?"

"There's a gas station the next street over."

Bauer dropped his legs from the pew and sat up. "Holy crap that would be a bad idea. Even a little bit of petroleum could go a long ways...Lets go check it out anyway."

They got up and went to the door, Bauer opened the door and froze upon the sight. The whole street was filled with crows, there had to be at least a hundred of them, sitting on the buildings, walking in the streets, perched on the telephone wires.

"Those weren't here when we got here," he breathed, looking nervously at Harry, who stood there, looking unperturbed by their presence. "There wasn't like a freakin' nest in that shed was there?"

"No," Harry replied, giving him a look, as if he had said the silliest thing and headed for the Jeep. Bauer followed after him quickly, eyes darting about as he hopped into the Jeep.

"Are these the same ones from the mill?" He asked.

Harry shrugged. "Most likely."

"Christ," he muttered, resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders. "Where's the gas station?"

"Take a right at this street and another at the next."

They left the birds behind and he turned down the streets, stopping in front of the gas station, getting out to inspect it.

"They're most likely empty- they don't leave oil in these things when they go out of business. But I bet you there's some oil left, a simple coating you could say." He looked at the other buildings. "Problem is, we don't know for sure. What if one of the wells _is_ full? Mind you, it would be a good explosion, but I haven't calculated how far from here Guadalupe is. What of they see the smoke cloud, or feel the explosion. They'd send someone down here, and that would be no good for us." He frowned at the station. "I think we'll have to pass on this one. For now."

They drove around for a while, before he got hungry again, and decided to drive up to Guadalupe for something to eat. When he offered to take Harry over to the beach, the boy had declined, but there was something about it that caught Bauer's eye, the tightening of his lips, and his eyes had hollowed out for a second. Okay, so the beach was a no-no.

They decided to return to the mill, seeing that Harry was in what seemed like a bad mood, though it just meant that he wasn't as talkative as he had been earlier. Upon arriving, he sat in the jeep and stared mullishly at the crows hounding the place. They had to be the same ones from outside of the church. Why were they being followed by them? He got out of the car, following Harry as he moved across the dirt to the doors. Weren't crows supposed to represent evil or something?

He paused in the doorway when he heard strange scuffling nearby, and glanced down to see one of the crows rolling in the dirt, making strange gurgling noises.

"Hey Harry!" He called, and waited for the boy to return. Harry appeared in the doorway, and he pointed down to the struggling animal. Harry looked down at the creature for a moment, then looked up at him, staring, as if wondering what he could possibly do with it. "Well, shouldn't we _do_ something?" Bauer asked.

"I don't need a Dreamcatcher right now," Harry replied.

"Well we can't just leave it here to struggle," Bauer said. "It's bad for my karma."

Harry gave him a flat look. "I thought you were Catholic."

"Yeah? What does that have to do with anything?" Bauer was confused.

"Karma is a Hindu or Buddhist belief," he replied.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many beliefs," Bauer snapped. "Let' do something about this!"

"I thought you don't like crows," Harry sounded almost grumpy as he reached down with both hands and picked up the bird. The animal snapped at his hands and made distressed noises, very loud, and Bauer looked around nervously, expecting the other crows to make a ruckus, but they were silent, standing in their places, be it on the fences, on the wires, or on the ground. Creepy. Really creepy.

Harry took the bird inside, and Bauer was relieved to follow, placing the bird on the cafeteria table and pulling at its wing, leaning way too close for his comfort. "There's a piece of wood stuck in its wing," Harry said, straightening up and heading for his room. "Most likely from the explosion."

"Oh great," Bauer groaned. "Stupid bird."

Harry dug into a drawer, pulled out a pair of tweezers, and rather roughly began to pull the wood from the bird. Bauer cringed at the pained squeaks, at the feathers that began to fly about, and he briefly wondered if the kid wasn't in the process of tearing the bird apart. He couldn't see his hands, just the bird moving about, crying in pain. Then Harry had it tucked under one arm, and in the other he had the tweezers and a large bloody splinter.

"Ouch," Bauer muttered with a grimace. "Guess it _is_ my fault. Will it live?"

Harry placed the tweezers and splinter on the dresser and inspected the bird's wing, avoiding the snapping black beak absently while he peered at the wounded sight under its wing. "It can be fixed," he muttered.

"I guess you'd know all about the physique of birds," When Harry looked at him he pointed at the ceiling. "I mean, with all the butchering you do."

Harry shrugged and headed out of the room, the crow making low noises from its throat, no doubt frightened and in pain.

_Weird kid_... Bauer thought with a shake of his head.

------------

"What do you have there?"

Harry jumped, looking up to see Grem standing over him, peering at the bird he had in his hands. He had been in the process of closing up the wounds, having taped the beak shut so the creature would stop trying to poke him with its strong beak. He hadn't felt Grem arrive, which was strange, because he was linked to the man.

"Grem. You're back." He stood up, snatching the bird when it tried to fly away from him. Relief was flooding through him. Grem was back, Grem would tell him what to do- Grem always knew what to do. Grem would kill Michael, or tell him what he planned to do with the man.

Grem patted his head in the usual way. "Did you feed the Devourer?" he asked, surprising him. People couldn't sense the demon's presence, in fact, even wizards seemed oblivious of it, also either mistaking it for a bruise or birthmark. But Grem was very aware the creature, which should not be a surprise- he had shown Harry how to make such a creature. He had created the Annihilator himself. "You didn't feed Mr. Montgomery to him, did you?"

Harry paused, uncertainty rolling through him. "No," he replied cautiously, lowering his head and rolling his eyes to look up at the man. Grem's eyes seemed to glitter. "I fed it the unicorn."

Grem's lips parted in a grin, but he said nothing, instead his black eyes falling on the bird in his hand, which had become very docile in his presence. He held out his hand, and Harry gave him the bird. Grem turned it over in his hands, clucking silently at his own thoughts. The crow stared at him with its beady eyes.

"Got yourself a crow, have you? Not going to make a Dreamcatcher out of it?"

Harry shrugged nervously. "I'm not sure. Bauer wanted me to save it."

Grem gave a soft laugh. "He's a bleeding heart. Do you like Bauer, Harry?"

Harry flinched under his scrutiny. "A little."

Grem gave a soft chuckle, eyes riveted on him in a way he was familiar with- it was the look right before he taught him another of his lessons. Those lessons meant pain, but he was used to that, ready for it even, it was the anticipation of it that was nerve racking. Grem looked down at the crow still in his hands. "Do you know what a group of crows are called?" Harry shook his head. "They're called 'murder'. Mind, you, that's mostly in poetry and such, and not used formally, but it the official name for them. I myself, find crows to be fascinating creatures- smart, aggressive, and if applied correctly, incredible useful." He looked at Harry. "Give me your hand."

Without hesitating, Harry extended his hand. Grem lifted it to his mouth and bit deeply; Harry did not wince or show any sign of pain, though Grem's eyes scanned his face for weakness. He only cried when Grem ordered him to. He felt warm blood pool into his palm, then Grem squeezed the crow, and its mouth opened from the pressure. Grem tipped his hand and he watched his blood pour into the crow's mouth. Grem eased up on the squeezing, and the bird swallowed. Harry's mouth turned down in dismay as Grem lifted the bird to his mouth and bit into its chest. He knew what the man wanted, he had done this ritual before, with a creature far larger that this bird.

Grem extended the bird above his head, and Harry tilted his head back and opened his mouth as the bird's warm blood dripped in his mouth.

"Say the words," Grem commanded softly, and he spoke.

"Blood of my Blood," he almost choked on the blood, swallowing more, the bird's leg kicking weakly. He felt his magic reach out and grab at the bird, forcing itself into it. "Flesh of my Flesh," the Devourer was alert, its voice moving through his head, wondering who was coming. "I bind you to me," he gasped, wincing as he felt his magic separate from him and form into an individual core inside of the crow. "Unto Life, into Death."

Grem released both of them, the bird flying from his hand, completely healed while he collapsed to his knees, exhausted. He looked up in time to see the bird racing toward his head, he was too slow in blocking it, and it smacked into his skull, burrowing into his scalp- it hurt, he clawed at it, but his nails only dug into his scalp, he only felt his hair. He shook his head rapidly, blinking the pain away, and stood up. He was aware that Grem was staring at him, could feel his disappointment, so he straightened he shoulders and took a calming breath, gingerly touching his hair where the bird had entered. He could feel it, just below the surface of his flesh, waiting for his commands.

*Name,* its voice came like a soft whisper.

"What?" Harry's wits were momentarily confused.

"It's self aware, Harry, and all things that are self aware need a name and an identity. So give it a name."

Harry flushed- he was bad with names, he wasn't creative in that department. He stood there, rubbing his palms against his legs, one was still bleeding slightly, crows blood coating his mouth, and wasn't surprised when Grem's hand connected with his face, knocking him into the table. His arms gripped the table, stopping him from falling to the floor. There was more blood in his mouth, his own this time.

"Don't stand there like a simpleton, I didn't raise one," Grem's voice was calm, but for once, he wasn't smiling, didn't look amused. Occasionally, Harry made him angry. He tried not to, he really did, but often enough he didn't know _what_ he did that made Grem angry. Half the time, Grem wasn't _even_ angry, he simply associated pleasure with pain. "You will name him Baha'lal."

*Baha'lal is your name,* he said to the bird as he wiped blood from his chin, sending nervous glances up at Grem, whose eyes moved past the cauldron that sat in the middle of their workroom.

*Baha'lal,* the crow breathed, and he could feel its pleasure by the tingle of his scalp.

"Did you finish the body I asked for?" Grem asked suddenly.

Harry nodded, moving past the cauldron to another table, where a body lay covered under a sheet. Grem pulled the sheet off and let it fall to the floor. The body was of a man, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a slim build- he would have fit in well with both of them. But a surgeon's eye would have been able to pick out the work done to him, his nose had been altered, a bit narrower, cheek bones and brow ridges had been lifted. The chin had been previously weak, and he had added implants. The man had been decent before, but now he was handsome. Grem took out a photo, the photo he had given Harry two months ago, and compared the two. The photo was more than fifty years old, and the man who had asked for the body had wanted a likeness to what he had been all those years ago. All the body needed was a heartbeat and a soul. Otherwise, it was in perfect condition. Though Grem had killed the man when he had brought him here, Harry had repaired the damage, lacing everything with unicorn blood that they had not sold.

He did not know the man in the picture, nor did he care, it was what Grem wanted, and he did as asked, having finished the body two weeks before Bauer's arrival. Grem looked over the body, black eyes appraising every inch of it. Then he straightened with a smile. "Excellent, as always." He lifted the body over his shoulder and began to exit the workroom. "Kill Bauer when he's no longer useful," he ordered, moving past the Dementors, who moved away from him but reached out their bony gray hands with want. Several touched Harry as he passed them, pulling away his worries, one touched a finger to the side of his swelling face, and the chill numbed the pain.

"What about Montgomery?" Harry asked as they stepped over the bodies and passed his door. Grem paused, glancing at the door, then grinning down at him.

"Well that all depends on you, Harry," he replied.

Harry opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but the man was already _fading, _turning transparent, then dispersing away like mist. Harry backed up quickly and went back into the Dementor's room as a multitude of emotions crashed into him. Frustration, fear, resentment, and anger, oh anger was so dangerous, and the Dementors ate and ate until he was hollow and numb inside again. Grem was playing with him. He didn't know why, didn't know why Michael Montgomery was so different. He didn't understand why Grem simply didn't kill him and bring in another victim. That was how it was done, that is what they did in China, France, India, Belgium, New York, Kansas. He was wringing his fingers, worrying at his bottom lip, and the Dementors crowded him, caressed his hair, sucked away at his emotions. They no longer jostled one another as they usually did- they realized that tonight they had a feast.

It would be a while before his emotions ran dry.

----------

_A picture is worth a thousand words._ The picture said exquisite delight, utter, oblivious happiness. The child's eyes were wide open, a brilliant green that flashed in the sunlight. His mouth was open in a frozen shout of glee, his arms in the air, small fists clenched. He wore blue and yellow swim trunks and a green towel was tied around his throat. He was Captain Spectacular; he was invincible- within the perimeters of the backyard, where his only foe was his cousin, who was crouching near the corner of the picture.

It was merely one of the numerous photos taken of Harry Potter-Dursley. He had been a photogenic child- the camera had loved him. Every picture captured a minute second in Harry's life, and in every one there had been a smile, even a hint of one. The Dursley's of Privet Drive had boxes and boxes of Harry, stacked neatly in a room filled with reminders of him. His red and blue bed, the small train wallpaper, the chest full of toys. There were larger pictures of him around the room, from all five ages, a happy baby to a happy six year old.

Petunia Dursley stood in the middle of the room and swallowed the lump in her throat. Harry had been missing for eight years, eight years of agonizing over his whereabouts, wondering if he was alive and as happy as had been, or if he had been subjected to some sick man's desires. She hunched her shoulders. Some days she wanted to know, wanted to find his body so she could stop wondering, stop hoping that he would show up. Other days though, hope was all she had. She could not bear the idea of spending the rest of her life not knowing what had happened to him, but at the same time, it would kill her to know. Most of the parents in her support group suffered from the same desires.

There was a creak behind her, and she turned to see her blood son standing in the doorway, mouth turned down in dismay. Dudley usually stayed away from Harry's room, and the only times he came near it was moments like this, when he was looking for her.

"What is it 'Dudders?'" She placed the picture on the blue dresser and went to the door. Dudley moved out of the way, stuffing his hands in his pockets, half engulfed in his over large sweater. He was going through his goth- oh no, his _punk_ stage- which was perfectly normal, her support group said- but she was unhappy to see that he had new, bigger plugs in his ears. "Dudley, you mangling them," she sighed, touching his stretched ear lobe barely hidden under his mass of blond hair.

Dudley groaned and smacked her hand away lightly, turning to go back to his room, which was what the average fourteen year old looked like, clothes and shoes tossed about with the usual adolescent carelessness. Along the hallway wall were pictures of Dudley's transformation, from a fat chubby baby, to the handsome- moody teenager he was now. She wondered what he would have looked like, if she hadn't had to stretch money and time between two boys instead of one. Before Harry had arrived, Dudley had been a spoiled toddler, greedy even. Yes, it was her fault, she knew, that he had been going that way, but when Harry had showed up on their porch, money became tight for a bit, things that usually went in Dudley's mouth had gone into Harry's.

Those first few weeks had been hard for them all. The bitterness, being strapped with another child she didn't want, from a sister she despised. But then Vernon's boss had heard that he was taking care of his dead sister in law's child, and had offered him a promotion. With more income coming in, things got a little easier, tension and resentment eased a little. But mostly it was because of Dudley. At first, he had been scandalized that he had to share his crib with another, but after about a week, he had warmed up to Harry. The two would romp around endlessly in the crib in the silly way that only one year olds' that had just managed to stand on their own could. With them occupying themselves, it had allowed Petunia to relax and take it easy most of the day, and when Vernon came home from a long day's work, it was to a very pleasant atmosphere and a good dinner.

Dudley became too preoccupied with his cousin to be fussy, and somewhere along there, she had discovered how sweet her nephew was. When she held him in her arms, the way his small fingers gripped her shirt...eventually she forgot about Lily and her husband, forgot that they had been magical people. She forgot that Harry wasn't hers, and as babies go, every woman was 'mummy' in the beginning.

People commented on her boys, wherever they went, how cute they were, how handsome they would be when they got older. What pretty eyes Harry had, how sweet and friendly he was. Harry was almost _too_ friendly, he had liked everyone, everyone had been his friend. Dudley had been his best friend. Perhaps she had become conceited with the praise, she had started buying cameras to take snapshots of them wherever they went, whenever they were being cute and adorable, which was everyday.

They were the Dursley boys.

It wasn't until she had enrolled them into primary school that the topic of Harry's last name came into consideration, and both she and Vernon hadn't wanted Harry to know that he was really her nephew, and not her son. For some reason, she knew that would hurt him in some way, despite the fact that they were all blonds and he wasn't. Two weeks before he turned five, they had changed Harry James Potter, to Harry Potter-Dursley. He never even noticed.

"What was it you wanted Dudders?" she asked in his doorway. He had slumped on his bed, a comic book in one hand.

Dudley shrugged."Could you close the door?" he asked almost pleasantly. He was at that age where he couldn't seem to control his ire- but ever since Harry had been taken, Dudley had been a little volatile. She had lost a son, he had lost a brother he had cherished. She didn't know who it was harder for, her, him, or Vernon. Both had refused to join her in her group therapy sessions, instead brooding on by themselves on days when the mind strolled back on those first few weeks of pain.

**Six Year Old Boy, Harry Dursley, Missing At Beach in Somerset**

Petunia shut his door and moved down into the living room to sit in the dark. God, if she could go back in time, for just one moment, it would be to keep Harry at her side while they were at that beach. If only she hadn't been so trusting of the people around her. She ran a hand through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut over the pain. At first he had simply been missing, those first twenty-four hours, but that changed once Dudley had admitted seeing a tall man in a suit take Harry by the hand and lead him away. There had been promises of ice-cream. The headline had changes then.

**Six Year Old Boy, Harry Dursley, Abducted at Beach in Somerset .**

Children went missing all the time, but not many of them had a wizarding civilization enraged. She'd had wizards on her doorstep, subjecting them to all types of magical means of revealing memories. They had agreed to every one of them in a hopes that they would find him. But Dudley's memory of the man had been unusually vague, the wizards had said. His face had been too blurry while everything else had been sharp. After a while she made them stop, couldn't bear the emotional stress it was putting on Dudley.

The regular media was enamored with the story for two reasons. The Ministry of Magic had put some pressure on the normal government to help search for Harry, made news stations show many of the great pictures and video footage she had taken of him. And it was no surprise that they became popular- Harry had been a sweet energetic child. Everyone in the neighborhood had nice things to say about him.

England searched for him, England found nothing. Not even a mangled body. Harry Potter Dursley was gone.

But not for sure- never for sure. That was why they still lived on Privet Drive, even though her workaholic husband had gotten several promotions. They could have moved into better cities, but she had insisted they stay here, just in case. Just in case.

**TBC**

**This is not very original, but I fashioned the Devourer after the _Violator_, from the movie _Spawn_. You can find picture easily via Google.**

**Next chapter you'll see a few more canon characters show up, with a few more original ones.**


End file.
